you leave your body only to look down upon yourself.
all you are is a pill.
slight pink tinge.
but ya daddy couldn't make you right.
he was too poor and he needed the money quick.
so he found a quick fix.
mixed you up until that spark in you,
the spark people pay good money to feel,
was almost all gone.
but now you couldn't find the spark in yourself either.
you couldn't remember who you were.
and then some chump bought you for a hefty price.
you lay shivering and confused on his mucous membrane
while he waited for your kick, your spark.
he wanted something from you that you just couldn't give 'im.
it wasn't long before he realised he'd been ****** over
by some broke home-pharmacist.
meanwhile, you'd completely lost yourself inside him,
pieces of you scattered all through his bloodstream,
too disfigured to notice he'd driven back up to ya daddy's rugged shack.
kicked the doors in.
splashing kerosene like liquid confetti.
with just one spark ya daddy got dead.
and you were still stuck in his system,
you'll be excreted soon, like you were never even there.
'cause they don't get their kicks from people like you.
The two most important characters in this piece are the drug maker/'you' (the 'impure pill) and the drug taker. The drug maker/impure pill is a metaphor for the very lower classes/hedonists/bohemians (aka just generally people who 'hinder' the economy) while the drug taker is a metaphor for the upper class/wealthy corporations/top 1%. The drug makers are expected to make their drugs as pure as possible. This is the important metaphor here. If you cannot create a drug that can do its job (or, if you break apart the metaphor: if you cannot create a child (i.e 'you', the impure pill) that can grow up and follow the law and obey orders, while still injecting the economy with its smack, err I mean, money) then you are useless. An impure drug/a faulty person does not give the Taker its kick/the economy its smack, err I mean, money, that it needs.
It's a bit cryptic, hope you like it!