See them dance by summer's tongue,
Their words in burning venom,
A bell of darker times has rung,
The voice of bitterness has sung,
Eyes can only open wider,
Wide enough to swallow some
Of all the petty crimes being spoken,
Wide enough to class as broken,
Impress me,
I'm impressed at all the dribble on your chest,
Your prize performing best-of-sellers body vegetation,
Signing on to proudly be the wasters of a nation,
As a sole-preoccupation,
A flag with coffee stains to wrap around your flagpole veins,
And clean the best bits of your brains,
Until they're popular and plain,
Like your front page saintly names,
All your matching shames for to barter, to exchange,
Pawn, collect, collide and trade,
Little children on parade,
Dulling teeth and shining blades,
Marching only on command,
By the shirt-and-tie dressed hand,
Pointing fingers from the stand,
While his tried-and-tested thumb allows you nothing,
Not a number, not a name,
Not a slice of no-man's cake,
Not a single goal to make,
Just a generation option,
A one-size-fits-all caption,
A flash-in-the-pan remark,
A whimpered sort of bark,
Won’t you like that?
Won't you say 'I'm glad I lived today today
To the best of my potential’,
Keep the mantra, it's essential
That you hold their words like diamonds,
That you wear their captive words,
Be a tool, a pleb, a bygone 'til you're bygoned from this world.
That's when they'll hit you hardest,
Steal your cruel remaining heart,
All the shots that travelled farthest
From your blazing rifle start,
They'll say how hard you tried,
How you chased the beast of pride,
How you learned through burns and costs
That there's an angel deep inside your paper mache man-made skin,
There's a greater-than-your-every-greatness hiding deep within,
And our noble leading fingers,
Our correct and righteous ways
Have protected you and guided you until your final days,
And the rabblers in their revelling,
Of sights and sounds and something real,
Something at last to finally feel,
Will have the words all hurdled with authority's black pace,
Like a stern parental hand onto their death-accepting face,
And when each and all are crying
In a state of deeper thought,
They'll broadcast words, distractions,
The roundabout's soft air,
Each cleansing note absorbing itself deep into your ears,
That you are not here to wander,
That you are not here to drift,
Nothing's higher than their office,
Or more honest than their view,
Nothing needs you more than they do,
And they take what they deem due.
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