If metal music racket and a straight jacket
can clog the corporations cogs,
then unemployable bleach blond anarchists turning white coats into black cloaks
is when  tattoos and pierced ears
become a parents worst fears.

We walk with untucked shirts and short skirts, wearing  a students mask
I hide a whiskey flask
in a blue blazer pocket  
knowing  dam well they can't stop it
if I walk with a lit cigarette in the parking lot past a parent, it's inherent that since they can't beat us anymore we won't join them.

But I'm not scared.

Because their clone army won't harm me.
Just like the microwave rays the crazies raved on about in the good old days
when disco was king and Justin didn't sing,
back when ADHD wasn't real,
and depression was just no big deal.


So call me a student psychopath armed with a devilish laugh as i bounce round a rubber room in a tin foil hat
refusing to be the systems lab rat.
So they call me a rebel as I lay back in revel watching the rabbit hole unfold
as a thousand sheep break the mold
that the man made when red writing atop a page became how we wage a child's worth.



So the sheep that march through the flames
immerge adorning robes of rebellion,
as the sounds of so many chains severed symphonies through the generation
marking many young minds escaping the confines society's shoved down indoctrinated throats.