There is no acoustic truth Only the saviours of our youth Resonating bodies all With no support they break and fall Visions of a platry few Concocted into a human stew The stew, it simmers, but still hot Remains a giant melting pot In the pot we wiggle and writhe Looking like worker bees in the beehive There is no reasoon for recreation So we do the dance called self-mutilation Political ambition lost We sow the seeds and reap the cost Firing threats until we're red From our toes up to our heads Threats once fried, return again Some we keep and some we send Why dance at all when we're dancing in hell? Why dance at all when we're killing ourselves? ---------------------------------------------------
