Story Behind the Song
fourth song completed by parwana
Lyrics
Her mouth gagged with tampons
His neck burned by business ties
Gender is prescribed by social physicians
Sheila can eat pussy but Daryl can’t take it up the ass
The only spin on toady's double standard perhaps
We should subvert our genders, fuck up the marketing scheme
Now Barbie is our president and George is on birth control
This is my sound mind’s plan for the corporate scheme
So burn your flags, kill the sirens, and begin to dream
Of a body politic in which cleanliness is not next to godliness
In fact it’s so far away, it fucking wreaks
So rip out your tampons and bleed proudly from your crotch
Leave your discarded eggs behind
As a symbol of a conflict both won and lost
Leave your discarded eggs behind
These days the trees
Are growing a strange fruit
Suited beings hanged in the name of profit
The margin of which keeps the eyes shut away from their sockets
If they knew their lives lied on the other side
Of the janitor’s closet, would they unlock it?
Could their eyes take the light, would they truly be prepared?
To put on the last suit that they’ll ever wear
A warm lamina of skin clad with teeth and hair
The ants come marching one by one into their concrete roach motels
The city is alive with the activity of oblivious drones
Urban is the word for a magnified ant farm sent from the depths of hell
A plague on our conscience is capitalistic wealth
At present, in one’s pursuit of a capitalistic dead end
A ceiling of glass transparency is foisted above her head
In order to play upon her temptations and provide her with the illusion that perhaps
one day she will in fact be able to claim these so-called riches
She is beaten back into place by a domineering boss who loudly exclaims “Bitches Get
Stitches!”
“FUCK THAT!” says she and throws herself headfirst into her specialized line of
slavery
However it does not occur to the mind that through this relentless struggle to make it
to the top
Her efforts are beneficiary only to her employer and this realization destroys her
“SO STOP!” yells she but it’s too late she’s already been fucked too many fucked up
ways you see? And the horrific part is that, all the while, she was chasing figments:
cars, diamonds, apartments: all materials! all symbols of status! “So I’ll slit this wrist”
thought she, “I’ve killed more through tax payments than Ted Kozinski did with his
mail bombs so I won’t need it where I’m going.” The depression begins through our
realization of the truth.
Open to page 59 and look upon the woman with the set of bleached teeth and realize
that she is in fact not real. That she is simply an image projected and enhanced
through the combined efforts of printer ink and the death of rain forests. She cannot
walk, talk, think, see, perceive, feel, or satisfy you in any other medium than that of
your wet dreams and the fantasies you concoct as you proceed to violate yourself on
a daily basis. Also, strive to understand that her vagina, if you still choose to believe
that she has one, is IMPENETRABLE and that the Christians are wrong about
masturbation, abortion, and the sacred nature of every sperm. If your DNA fails to
meet it’s end through ejaculation into a condom, onto your lovers back and/or face,
or simply into your hand, it will lay dormant in the scrotum, where it will eventually
die and be reabsorbed into the testicles. Therefore, by refusing to make an attempt at
a wet dream, lay your hand upon yourself, or participate in promiscuous sexual
activity, all in the name pleasure, you are denying a part of yourself the right to
explore the outside world and effectively sentencing your seed to life imprisonment
within the confines of your ball sack thus placing yourself among the ranks of Hitler,
Mussolini, or even worse...Geroge W. Bush. You have urges for a reason. Listen to
them...or you might as well sleep with the machines.
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