I'm scared of the musical taste of this generation. Now I don't need to haste, with this music. Cuz I know I have the power to abuse this. But I'll rather be a nuisance. And setup an intrusion. Clear up all the pollution. Cuz the youths minds are polluted. Caring more about possessions. As their minds unknowingly possessed. Ta-da. Magicians got u hypnotized. And I criticize, every single lie. **** people who can't sympathize with this generation.
We buy bags and shoes for money that could feed us for weeks We use Botox and scalpels to fix our imperfections We never leave the house or the room without checking our reflection or taking a selfie We make sure there’s never a hair out of place or a flaw to be seen We are the lost generation Our appearances are nothing but shells But that’s fine No one ever sees the empty insides We are the lost generation We are empty inside But we don’t care All we have ever wanted All we have ever craved is to be beautiful corpses
His angular head Hung in glory For the things he carried Were not his own. The cross he carried Was his father’s story. He hung upon the crossbar of deaths row. “Mother may I, go on and die? There is nothing left for me. Nothing!” He bowed his head— He died.
“Abba! Abba! Why have you forsaken me? Abba! Abba! Why have you traded glory for my death? Abba! Abba! The iron hath rusted The youth hath faded away. Here outstretched lay I for a stupid war. If you must father, drive spikes through my hands Make them spikes of *** to forget about war Today I have tasted the good wine, And today I will die as a holy sign.”
Panic set in as he woke up naked on the table. He looked down his slender leg to find a stump of yellow and green projections. His stump was sewn together like a Christmas ham. Chloroform callbacks reeled into his mind. Naked, he felt as though a free man. Here on this table in the dying days Lay the last breaths of hope in humanity.
Metal protruded from his skull He felt the war deep in his mind. No man’s land hugged Georg With a frigid sense of endearment. Wrapped in the tendrils of the night, What good was his wound now? He was missing pieces, Waiting for a missing peace. God softly called, “This is the end”