A bang, a crash, get off your ***,
the Dead are here, for you, my dear,
they’ll steal your time and **** your mind,
tell you how to dress and transform you into the rest.

They are the Dead, but they’re very much ahead

with their gangs, their cults; it’s indeed your fault
that these songs are in my head, brought to you by the Dead.
Corpses lining up from all around, their Queen parading downtown;
appalled how mere strum of guitar free feeble minds to gain thus far.

They are the Dead—too late, you should have fled

into hiding, before it all came subsiding
into toxic debris, due to refusal to disagree,
like rats in the grinder, you can’t get much blinder
with your bigoted visions and hypocritical decisions.

They are the Dead, tyrants in need to shed

their preferences over you, reminding you whom to choose,
all this keeping quiet persuading my brain to riot,
difficult to resist anymore while you worship a *****;
turning the other way from the same old cliché.

They are the Dead, oh how I dread

what this world’s become, how we’ve succumbed
to shooting sprees, sugar music and reality TV;
we’re a lost cause, a wasteland glitch stuck on pause;
and tomorrow you can ensure they’ll start another war.

*They are the Dead, here to stay and to corrupt your head