Deep in the heart of darkest utopia, I heard the alarms clangity-clanging away at the coming doom. Man, they sure don’t make it easy to get some shut eye; they don’t make it easy to ignore their screams. I’m tightrope-dawdling along the broken sidewalk, trying not to draw attention in this tone-deaf neighbourhood. I feel like barking in a foreign tongue, vibrating my dangling uvula like a well-used punching bag. Oh yeah, baby, I’m ready to roundhouse some circus freakshow exhibit now, to show them who’s boss in this sprawling home of the knave.
Big top, screw top, mop top, they’re all the same to me.
But you know, I don’t really begrudge them their lucky privilege, I don’t hold their appalling lack of taste against them. Hell, someone has to keep wearing those goddamned white loafers, since all the salesmen got smart a couple of generations ago and started dressing like golf pros.
And in the end, really, the love they crave, is equal to the love they stave. Hehe, just what the world needs, salesmen making more salesmen – could really drive a houseclown to drink.
spiral scratch
bullshit .. . { the dishrags, vancouver complications }
fuck with dre day .. . { dr dre, the chronic }
na na na na naa .. . { kaiser chiefs, employment }
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