Birth’s a once a lifetime chance
to suffer till the day you die.
Happiness and sadness dance
around a rotten apple pie.
Memories mutilate your mind;
you suffocate in sorrow.
Regret’s a sure bet as your brain
does its jolly job, its level best,
to make your life one long train wreck.
The clock looks like a target.
Concentric circles in your eyes
focus on what’s futile–blue skies,
beauty, tigers shot for their dicks
by careless, heartless pricks;
hogs and chicks, rounded up
like cattle to feed the face of greed.
Grim Reaper dressed like Santa Claus
beheads those elves who don’t
put out. He has them do his dirty work
so he can focus on his fame.
He knows the smell of red is green
and celebrates the spread of cancer.
War’s more than just a magazine–
if peace is real, then war’s your answer.
And not just war on battlefields,
whose soldiers blow themselves to bits,
but war on everything that moves,
for war will never call it quits.
As long as robots run the show
and run the earth into the ground,
the thirst for war can only grow,
as it’s the only game in town.