Thank the loyal servants for being so loyal,
|
soon they'll be happy and very safe;
|
if not, sent off like a pigeon with his head cut off.
|
if it wasn't for the guillotine, there would be no umbilical
|
cord. isn't it pitiful? at our pinnical,
|
they make it sound so pinnocchio.
|
that's how i know it's so dumb, it could even write its own article.
|
give me a break, the great big break that breaks your back
|
and chews my fingers off
|
'til it's safe to laugh again, or at them.
|
put the coals back in my eyes again,
|
and away from the fire that burns out our loved ones
|
and takes its toll out on me.
|
'cause good luck is always keeping minutes
|
we gotta stay in play, so don't run out of tokens.
|
plus the machine needs warm bodies.
|
plug the pipes if you still got skulls;
|
if there's time to muddy the hands
|
then there's time to study the flow of the blood in the lay of the land
|
running off and eroding our relatives
|
with red, white, and blue christmas lights
|
in the greatest kingdom. i say it's a crop and i'm a lousy meal,
|
a lousy liar amongst so many bad actresses
|
and not enough stimuli left to light an oven pilot.
|
so how can i not be negative?
|
my own cliche, my would-be peers
|
more caught up with image than speaking than truth,
|
and if that's the only truth you can come up with, go fake some bravery
|
like the rented camaraderie in the human lottery.
|
whatever year it is, i'm still sick.
|
can't hate the sky for being gray
|
or the bad poem that we live out every day.
|
twenty minutes outside the city, or fifteen years from over the hill,
|
with enough time to kill braincells to fry;
|
you all gonna fry with me.
|
it must be, you all gonna fry with me...
|
|
We who die in more flying accidents than firefights;
|
no cure of the overkill.
|
|
Forty year-old women with cakes and carriages singing bible hymns
|
ain't fixing anything; get your picket signs,
|
go on strike, get a five cent raise; your a champion. now
|
they're making model citizens out of your children,
|
mapping personal growth through frivolousness; so seperated,
|
yet drugged up to nowhereland. even love feels artificial;
|
happiness, my loaded pistol.
|
in the '20s, i'da been a socialist in a colorado coal mine,
|
but it's 2000-something and the rats love their mazes.
|
it's all so ethnospecific and opinionated,
|
divided we take our antidepressants and make our appointments,
|
let the dolphins die, but who's gonna save the humans?
|
i've been to a million cities and they're all the same:
|
people laugh and talk the same,
|
girls all flirt the same, employees all dream the same.
|
love your grid and your comfort zone,
|
look out for the white-girl suicide bombers,
|
look out for your time or your piece of mind
|
or entertainment above the fifth grade level.
|
stay ignorant and easily corralled through conservative reforms
|
'til we're broke from the half-measures,
|
taxed to the teeth to fund the caste system.
|
living it up for our stereotypes
|
and i know nothing, but at least i know;
|
while they vote green and drink their espressos,
|
discussing film festivals, all as a write-off. off with your head;
|
body loves the dirty work,
|
love your job, but it will never love you like an automobile,
|
fetuses, peoples, and angels hang the same on the mobile.
|
if it wasn't for the blindfold, you'd ask,
|
"what am i looking for, living for, breathing for?"
|
"who's them? not i, but it must be the plutonium in me."
|
|
It must be the plutonium in me...
|
|
-----------------
|
Plutonium
|
Sole |