Demockracy

Our mistakes pack in hijacked planes

A trip to piss on our founding father's graves

In a perfect world we would leave our jobs midday

Beat off onto the Orwellian cameras

Burn down every bank and corporate headquarters

But no, we derive too much pleasure from our money fetish

Dollars tossed at us like cheap, smelly hookers

Syphilis denying us our own strength

To kick in the head of Capitalism's ugly body

Don't Look At Me I'm Weird

Like drunken perverts, elected shadows toss money at strippers' feet as they dance on the Washington Monument. Capitol crawling on legs of disease refuses to be put down and the burden lands on the mandatory worshipers. They plucked technology from the tree of Eden and washed our brains in the juice. Their sugar melodies soften us up for suburban warfare fought in cyber battlefields and all they've given us are rusty insults for defense. Something is going on behind Miss Liberty's curtains but we only see outlines of softcore information. When they took the "I" out of "Individual" our future was sealed in brown bags and set on fire on our doorsteps. Smell the back of your boot and welcome yourself home, John Doe. The future is in your grasp as long you never reach for it.