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
in the mighty 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. Quite pissed.
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