'are you mad?'
escape the ism
embrace the terror
we strike into the cold shadow of the heartless bland dualistic made-up faces of nevermore spectacular drugged drones
my pen hurts through a screen
voice aches in the mic
i'm alone at war in these streets
i'm with comrades at war in these streets
the oo-la-la aesthetics of a sold art world
and i'm asked so often 'what's wrong with making a living'
and i'm told so often i'm 'the anti-idealist'
yes yes yes
'so tell us, preacher man, is it really that bad?'
you'll know where you're plane is, i say
ain't about me no way
and no one never knew shit anyway
i'm in love
got more terror than a television