In the eyes of the law you're just a number,
so don't wash my mind with your slander.
My heart despises the things you say
yet thousands smile in vain.
Domination of crisis is marching bold,
the last supper at the table is going cold.
Theatrical deliverance is such a farce,
the show brings down the stars.
Rage in the horizon is in his prime,
slurring the words of a major shrine.
The tortured souls will never rest,
their reflections fade possessed.
Worthy protests worn to the bone,
conker games played on mobile phones.
A coffin filled with processed meat
carried by the shell shocked with cobbled feet.
The stone circle looks flat at dawn,
free range children peck the dirt for corn.
Oily boys lick butter off their guns,
shoot tin cans then grind their gums.
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