Prod your ribs. Smack your lips
Paradise is at your fingertips
Zombies fill the garbage tips
It is the day of the packaging whips
Your soul is empty, your room is full
Over your eyes is the occluding wool
It’s getting hotter, but you are cool
It is the age of the gullible fool
The trends are changing faster and faster
Your choices are pale, as pale as alabaster
You’re told you can get what you want
It is the era of the Epicurean jaunt
Your character has no pigment, but it is char
The media makes a figment a brilliant star
Sink your mind in their irredeemable sinkhole
For the wolves have made you their bloody goal
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