let's gather round the carcass of the old deflated beast,
we have seen it through the accolades and rested in it's lea,
syntactic is our elegance, incisive our disease,
the swath endogenous of ourselves will be our quandary,
we've nestled in it's hollow and we've suckled at it's breast,
grandiloquent in attitude, impassioned yet inept,
frivolous gavel our design, ludicrous or threat,
excursive expeditions leave us holding less and less,
so what does it mean?
when we tell ourselves it's only for a while we have been deceived
and it's only for a moment that the treasures of our day
make life easier to complicate,
the treasure thrown away,
I'm so tired of all the fucked up mind
of all the terrorist religions and their bullshit lines,
of all the hand-me-downs from all industrial crimes
and the weeping mothers and those who are led so blind,
from the plastic protests and the hands of time
and the pursuit of mirth and all hating kind.