Go now softly into those stoned days.
Peal that facade of ever-clear interests,
pentatonic notes of soothing complacency
That rise out of the US money media,
Selling Hitler as peanut butter,
Or the workers as cockroach plague.
Iraq, shit-faced into puppetry,
Who in their bourgeois mind could have gods
As bloody as our blood, white and blue,
Blue like the Midas class that runs the show,
Bored with mansions and wasted sons.
Continue to provide, divide.
Break the workers and the minimum wage.
The scathing sun and the churning sea,
How can they shine on this inebriated kingdom,
Of electronic football religion and beer,
Cloudy as the world outside is brutal.
The sickest technorave is a boot-camp.
Brass and drum on the confused hardtop dancing,
A battlefield of drinks will pour like blood,
Dying herds by the lacquered trough sipping poison,
Softening the masses
From the love of pure rage.
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