a lot of them here
a lot of them here
the greedheads are driving their lawnmowers up my ass, maintaining their homogenous fantasy. the merchants are robbing the rich and the poor. the middle class as a money-grubbing suction cup, greased with third-world exploitation. for the price of a shave, you can get calcutta to dangle from your nipple. the ignorant are building upon their talents with booze and loud allegations. there is no cure for spinning unreachability. i’m not responsible for your surrender. your psychosis feeds on its mother like everything else. it’s a sodium-vapor stumble through a gauntlet of hereditary lies. put your chips on the ones crying in the tower. put your chips on the ones in control! . . the moral had a parade, everyone came to watch . . centurions frantically opened closets and strapped on their consciences . . the cops came to baby-sit . . the air gets glaucomic when men stand together . . and when i saw these shadows walking past, i saw desperation and not passion. a good passion looks high as the moon tide, not a mayor barbequing smiles. a stroll through the smiles of stupidity, so genuine . . a stroll in the ring, a field of lethargic hot dogs and spectacular voyeurs, where life is not a consideration, never mind the courage to quit the scene and walk on air. the greedheads want somebody else to do it. i have no forecast. that would be murder. i just don’t like the humiliation my own race has burdened me with.
the greedheads are driving their lawnmowers up my ass, maintaining their homogenous fantasy. the merchants are robbing the rich and the poor. the middle class as a money-grubbing suction cup, greased with third-world exploitation. for the price of a shave, you can get calcutta to dangle from your nipple. the ignorant are building upon their talents with booze and loud allegations. there is no cure for spinning unreachability. i’m not responsible for your surrender. your psychosis feeds on its mother like everything else. it’s a sodium-vapor stumble through a gauntlet of hereditary lies. put your chips on the ones crying in the tower. put your chips on the ones in control! . . the moral had a parade, everyone came to watch . . centurions frantically opened closets and strapped on their consciences . . the cops came to baby-sit . . the air gets glaucomic when men stand together . . and when i saw these shadows walking past, i saw desperation and not passion. a good passion looks high as the moon tide, not a mayor barbequing smiles. a stroll through the smiles of stupidity, so genuine . . a stroll in the ring, a field of lethargic hot dogs and spectacular voyeurs, where life is not a consideration, never mind the courage to quit the scene and walk on air. the greedheads want somebody else to do it. i have no forecast. that would be murder. i just don’t like the humiliation my own race has burdened me with.
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