Angry Song

It’s an endless field of the worthless

Cultivated and wise in survival

We are the chaff, my friend

We are the chaff

Civilization is a joke

As is the idea of moving beyond it

Explosions rule the day

Ideas rule text but not hearts

And the sweetest voice is only

A selfish person looking for attention

Grow fat within your own self regard

And remember anger as the only policy

Carry a weapon of fear and rest assured

With pharmaceuticals

There’s a giant herd, a massive conglomeration

All the unshorn, worthless sheep

The wolf is over in yonder fields and

We are the stragglers, the poets

We are the stragglers

Now I can write on a hot summer’s evening

Because that’s all that’s left

Now I can feel isolation in truth

No one, but no one loves a poet

No one, but no one loves anything