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.