Hollow shell games, the perfect people play outside the smoldering museums
Hallowed ground, dopes naming their possessions after working days of the week
Clock bell jargon, cuts the glass ceiling bringing stale air from human exhaust
Cluck-cluck, fowl faced frowning hurried pace headless moniker gimmick shtick
Satire slump, the sarcasm wails like catcalls beckon zombie whores from their dead
Satyr sheets, played out like a tragic deck, hands wringing whining minge mouth
Right is ripped, and torn asunder, the split divinity, the glitch in the program
Roaring light, pressed in glass, ironing out the irony, the map and the territory
Confused cockamamie, drown the heart, quench my soul, the thirst comes first
Clamoring crowd, pushes the urge to the edge, leaves psyche a creaky construct
Memory blocks, filling the void with useless information, no room left for pain
Monkeyshines, tricked into spilling secrets, down the drain, last words, dying dish
Veiled references, it touches the dawn, blinded by the reverence for empty meaning
Vast expanses, clutches the waste, a sea salt sacrament, rusts cheek bones, manic rouge
Tackled touch, time seized by guards, the hen house foxed, the wasted weasel smiles
Tough as nails, shielded from the sun, by choice or denial, it puts the words into sin
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