Mr Middle- Grounded

We're sashaying around in bubbles trying to keep that fragile equilibrium keep the soul at 98.6 degrees. Sooner or later, they'll come with pins dipped in poison called a different opinion bubbles will pop and out pours the venom. Black hoods, brown hoods and white hoods slinging bull horns, bats and banter from Chicago to Boston to Portland it's all the same.. sloppy slander. You're tilting left - I'm tilting right.. where's Mr. middle ground that sweet cream of democracy rapidly shrinking only bloody scalps-maelstroms of dead dreaming. Cue balls and eight balls trapped in green sockets madmen and rich men, aiming cold eyeless rockets God trapped in the corner pocket shaking a finger at his wayward creations.