And the State of things is set
for yet another broken machine to be repaired by a broken machine.
Lined up from here to eternity; some maintenance required.
And we don’t see the meat and malice
that keeps breaking the robots of social control
and making us the repairmen
Of our own demise.
And they are getting fatter and fatter
Each time we lay down arms and minds
And run to the aid of our electric masters
In towers like white gods.
To request the privilege of our temporary satisfaction.
Nothing is pretty in this world when everything is for sale
An arms race to browbeat the banal
And exalt what’s still less than extraordinary
And fill the insides with sugar and despair,
And sell us our happiness an hour at a time.
Life passes with time, and time is money,
so money is life when time is spent on things less perfect.
Yet I am pacified.
Crime and suffer, time and pay, cower and fear, repent and pray.
They get you in the end,
Doesn’t it make you feel better?