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I want you to run up this hill,
then continue until you cannot.

I want you to be socially and culturally harnessed 
Into this unnecessary waste of your life.

I want you to tape this box, for longer than you can bare.

I want you to shut-off your imagination, 
and internal advice of salvation.

I want you to labour your days into submissive bores
Focused on minor scores, like material and future investments.

I want you to suffer and cling to a unchanging fascade.
A beehive of pointless duty, no wax producing,

Just emotional confusion and fear.

Just unrelenting mechanical moans, rotting bones
And white smoke chimneys.

A cleaner time, baskets for rubbish, disposable cloths and cleaners.
Unlike before when logic was seen

Their ramifications of failure, fall like accumulative sticky cotton 
A blizzard of shroud forever covering their ghastly plan aloud 

Until old and lived on the impenetrable, lies evolved on 
With modern crisis, modern time. 

A family book of lies and us the pieces readily and willingly picked 
Like a box of teddies to the vending claw loosely grabbing 
Eventually snatching any being sought or played by our own 
Weak allure to wanting more hypnoticly romanced by Hollywood's door.



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