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)
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