Whacha Gonna Do

Send me your crazy You’re lazy The hallucinogenic hazy The sick mother F***ers Who wanna see you pushing daisies Gimme your sinners Gimme your saints Gimme that 9 you use to fix problems You claim to never propagate You got no patience You got no hope No way to cope The only skill you offer Is slinging something to smoke Be it from a barrel or pipe Your failure is F***ing ripe So whacha gonna do? Join me in the grave? Or live in a cage? Either way you’re a slave of rage The deeds of yesterday Write today’s page Is this sinking through the layers of insanity? Or is it blinded by worthless vanity? Come tell me your sad tale Your miserable story Your existence that you fail It’s ok that you’re worthless It’s ok that you’re hollow It’s quite easy to see That it’s evil you follow From the beginning To the present You never had a chance It was always failure That you had to romance I don’t blame you in your need To feed your greed Though I do question your methods Upon which you proceed Do you ever look at the pattern that you follow? Indeed nothing new And quite violently hollow Ever wonder if you’re better than trash? Or is the need for quick satisfaction Seem rash? I have always wondered About the need for recognition Is it really satisfying? To recognize one’s self addiction? Thoughts to contemplate Of your self worth’s fate A lifelong pursuit Of green paper’s debate Such a trivial pursuit I rate Eric (and sometimes not)