It takes a village to stop a bullet, johnny.  but you go 'head and stand in front of as many bullets as you want; hell, i might even write a poem about you doing just that. but i shan't pay you. and that is my price.
there, under the rug, like darkness in haste... there between, we perplex... at a civilized pace
[ as we continue to mean nothing ]

until our horrors are in HD
then we make a move on Paradise...
like drunken kangaroos wearing cursed hats
that can never be removed....  

storming the gates.