They print paper
We make copies
Lumps in their soup
Lumps in our blood
The Great Divide
Label me doomed
Tickle me tired
With your barbed tail
But she's got room
To powder her nose
And he loves the steam
While the devil
Adds ten pounds
The sweet **** of the middle
The coddled and befuddled
Spawn
Padded walls
Will lead you to
A shallow grave-
Three feet under
Yearning for a box
While they dance in circles
Generations of
Insulin an Insulation
Widen the gap
Here comes the bomb
Numb is not a temporary state
But it sure is a comfortable place
We're all on the lam
Don't ask for more
Ask to return
To the source
They print paper
We make copies