Dear g-tron, we the people don’t seem to be on,
The same page, like the declaration was written on,
Independence is gone, invisible ink on a dear john letter,
If I’m wrong, it’s a strong delusional attention getter, but its better to be a fictitious king than an unusual pawn, so instead of a letter I send you this salutory song, instead of a monkey I say your king kong
Dear mr. adams, let’s get at em, the heater’s prior leader, we gonna beat the odds and feed the three girls, our daughters, and I’m not going to greet her in no wife beater, I ought to see her free, not turned into a robot boop boop bleep bleeper, like R2-Dr serving drinks for the leader of the emporer’s box seats at the theatre,
Look, I am your founding father, a traitor, don’t bother to consult the charts
The creature that governs the course is meaner, the cart’s been put behind 2 horses of the apocalypse, and bitches we’ll be there, facing the dark side of the force, the mind-numbing narrow visions, shadows creep near, but we’ve embraced our decision to emancipate the citizens with wheels ablazing, as we stear clear, whizzing our way through the maze of the digital age, written on the virtual page as you read there.
And so let’s slow it down and sound out the thoughts of the underground
Pounding fists like lunatics, might be improvement over protesting in the streets with lists of minor adjustments, ground down by boots shooting into the crowds, this is not justice it’s just pissing in the wind, again and again, how many friends on facebook do we need to begin to send out new trends, how many times must a crime be assigned to the elite, to the refined feats of oppression till we put feet to fires, heat up congressional sessions, higher and higher extrapolations of differential compensation
this is not a nation, it’s a gas station, an oppressive slave ship sailing toward a spiritual assassination of ecological proportions, old testament style portions of famine and plagues we are facing,
I’m not going to erase my hell raising inclinations for the comfort of the hastening of humanity’s hospice placement, just in case we make a narrow escape I will lay my correspondences to tape,
the war against despondency, our fate is a great confrontation with the complacent faces that the future generations depend on us to erase, so mr. adams, there, I’ve made my fucking case.