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He Asked Me What was Wrong
Folder:
American Ritual Subliminal diagnosis
Is all the rage,
They tell you what's wrong
Of their own device,
A real rotten spice has
Laced the air apparently,
The same situation I've
Lost my station in,
Somehow sinking into
Greater multitudes of
Gray matter I've come
To the realization that
There's no stopping
Mouths that chatter,
Crowds that scatter,
A little boys brains on
The concrete splattered,
Though the vixens vices
Are to be vicious
We insist they're visions,
Too bright to bury,
The excitement carries me away
