With trite I fly my party kite,
I say empty things to people hollow.
They lap it up, and ask for more,
I feel a tinge of rancid sorrow.
These are the fruits of toil,
Many such fools my bread make.
Wham bam flim flam is what they want,
Pick their nose and clicks they rake.
A funny sort of society blind,
Full of people who'd rather not think.
Click on yes or click on no,
I assure them that they don't stink.
But they do, like an unthinking race,
They wear the mascara feces brown.
In their mouth I put the words,
They feel proud it's their frown.
The very same people of hasty choice,
Choose dictates of the boorish kind,
They praise leadership - sans a spine,
Spinning fibs and flying proudly blind.
I shout of course I'm very hoarse,
The word salad empty and vain.
They fixate on the planted questions,
Their pain always an assured gain.
A race disgrace full of complacent face,
But thank god for the fools.
Democracy is just an agreed on king,
And a crowd too pleased with rules
