It's his album about an algorithm
a certain collection of a collectors day-dreaming
it's a dying summer and your still stuck singing
feeling a heartache from poetry about poverty
still buying every new opportunity blind to always seeing
he didn't want your money only yourself
keep on hiding and crying
inside your plush property
while all I try is to
scream for you to notice he's here with me
inside an one-hundred dollar painting
wasting away--bathing--in the
diverse hues of your professional synergy