The Final Election In A Crumbling EmpireAs we sit on top of the world, with our gutters cluttered with waxen cups crushed under our tires, and all we see every day are the familiar sights of our daily existence, we know nothing.
As the dust continues to collect in every corner of every polling place, and every television screen has a familiar smiling face, and our time's wasted as they shovel the shit so high we can taste it, we know nothing.
As every doorman checks our IDs, and every scrap of metal gets detected, and we hold our twenties up to the light, and plant forests in the median strips to make things right, we know nothing.
But the whole world is watching.
The whole world is watching and the whole world is sick, and they'd really rather see a puppet head on a stick.
And all the soulless self-important liars holding the reins make the good ones fighting for something real in terms of change seem so strangely out of place, their goals so out of range...
And we feel ourselves choke as the mud flies, and the tradition of lies undermines and belies what we're taught all our lives:
"Vote or don't complain."