Lyrics:

You style your hair too;
You’re relatable, aren’t you?
You keep blood off your suit;
They behave like a brute.
You have so much to say;
You’ll never last on a podcast.

They inflate. You depreciate.
Strange is only okay if it’s up on stage.
You took 7255 steps across a salt plain.

We all make mistakes,
Like filming someone’s suicide
Or plugging child gambling sites.
We’re here for them,
Beetles of their bildungsroman,
Their never-ending story.
It gets harder to rise from your bed with dignity (down to serendipity);
Raise any qualm, any invocation of the Frankfurt school,
Told you’re chasing ghosts.

So little left of the left; the rest
Grab their participation badge and voucher.
Vouch for her without having read a shred of her words.

Marvel at the state of contemporary cinema,
Or how people now equate depiction with endorsement.
They want their hands to be held, their eyes blinded before the lights go up, their ears sewn shut,
The latest model of reality.

If you voice your own dissent,
Whiplash from the velocity,
“You boomer, you doomer,
You must repent.
Keep singing the paeans and ditties.”

In one breath it helps unearth atrocity, wisdom, and hypocrisy,
And in the next, sculpting koala brains,
Leading friends and family to their deaths.
It’s all about being blessed by algorithms;
First impressions are everything.
Critical thought is assumed knowledge,
And the right-not-right are happy that way.

Smell the spilt the flour, live by the hour.
They want it to seem dour, live by the hour.

They…
Demand that art must part with politics—AKA, MIA: truth—
Be light-hearted, but I hate to break the ice, Anubis had a broken device.
So, write of your plight each night, Paterson. It always leads somewhere, And, even if others never know, you’ll have always yourself to show.
My compass is the minute hand, and I seek to withstand the expanding sand.
I may bleed, but I plead, do not feel that you have to heed these words.