Harvest the honeybees;
Pluck their budding wings and
place 'em at his base for all the world to see.
Topple the God's that took away our sheen.
Park your disobedience in a bucket of Soylent Green.
Climb the pyramid scheme with a gut full of gasoline
then scream, "A kamikaze ain't got a ******* thing on me."
Regurgitate your dwindling dreams all over their Dramamine.
For ****'s sake folks, they took Morpheus and fed him to the sea.
Sorry, but the subroutine's got me itching for an inch of breeze
and the Machine Queen next to me is pressuring me like a submarine.
It's touchscreen feelings meets a world that wont stop bleeding.
I'm sure the regime's got their fist's full with antifreeze from the
last time they marched quarantined sardines to the guillotine.

Praise Prometheus.