The tárogató yells
About the Spiritus Sanctus
While I conduct
Electric orchestra
In more ways than one
Noxious fumes
Piles of elastic dolls
The forge beckons
The crisis averted
God bless America
The working man
He's down on his luck
He kills his boss
Then waits in his blood
For the police with a smile
The wooden flute
The samurai's hat
The question of allegience
The barbed wire fences
God bless America
The muezzin talks
To the director
Looking for the paper
The Luzerne Zeitung
That is what he cried
Will I live to see daylight?
Will I choke on a cloth,
Doused in gasoline
With the rabbit skinner?
God bless America
Purple
Yellow
Indigo
Green
Lime
Curmudgeon
Ocher
Bordeaux
Magenta
Pink
Does the Creator ever question the existence of her own self, or does she sit upon her clouds, oblivious to our plight, performing the greatest of rituals with no effect and appointing herself God of This, God of That, God of Whatever-Comes-To-Mind, naming herself after whatever we want her to be, believing in simply just letting us believe, calculating until our inevitable doom makes her simply useless and lonesome? Would her angels then weep for humanity? Are there angels? Who are you?
Allah?
Krishnu?
Tezcatlipoca?
Zeus?
Inferno is unleashed on the ******* sagging from my chin
The pain burns, but worse is the humiliation
Even worse is the taste
But I endure it, for I must see the yellow brick road once more
The chest grows
The hair grows
The voice grows higher
She stands tall
In her filth
In her rotting lamb's skin
In the armchair
Where bliss once caught her
And a generation dies under the commanding voice of Whoever-The-Fuck
Why would his name matter when all you'll remember is the count of millions?
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
Can you dig your own grave, America?
My arms are tired.
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 5:33 PM UTC
The tárogató yells
About the Spiritus Sanctus
While I conduct
Electric orchestra
In more ways than one
Noxious fumes
Piles of elastic dolls
The forge beckons
The crisis averted
God bless America
The working man
He's down on his luck
He kills his boss
Then waits in his blood
For the police with a smile
The wooden flute
The samurai's hat
The question of allegience
The barbed wire fences
God bless America
The muezzin talks
To the director
Looking for the paper
The Luzerne Zeitung
That is what he cried
Will I live to see daylight?
Will I choke on a cloth,
Doused in gasoline
With the rabbit skinner?
God bless America
Purple
Yellow
Indigo
Green
Lime
Curmudgeon
Ocher
Bordeaux
Magenta
Pink
Does the Creator ever question the existence of her own self, or does she sit upon her clouds, oblivious to our plight, performing the greatest of rituals with no effect and appointing herself God of This, God of That, God of Whatever-Comes-To-Mind, naming herself after whatever we want her to be, believing in simply just letting us believe, calculating until our inevitable doom makes her simply useless and lonesome? Would her angels then weep for humanity? Are there angels? Who are you?
Allah?
Krishnu?
Tezcatlipoca?
Zeus?
Inferno is unleashed on the ******* sagging from my chin
The pain burns, but worse is the humiliation
Even worse is the taste
But I endure it, for I must see the yellow brick road once more
The chest grows
The hair grows
The voice grows higher
She stands tall
In her filth
In her rotting lamb's skin
In the armchair
Where bliss once caught her
And a generation dies under the commanding voice of Whoever-The-Fuck
Why would his name matter when all you'll remember is the count of millions?
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
Can you dig your own grave, America?
My arms are tired.