I was born as a towel and wept tears of blood -
A commodity sold for meaning and food.
The sun dried me useless - they wrung me out
And bleached me hungry. Yet I hung myself out
On a line, with mediocrities
Who ground me down - their gravities
Of normal. No more wings. Clip clip!
Those institutions gave me blood to sip -
My blood. "Scarecrow," I was told, “never fly
With your words. Never dream. Never try
To transcend who you are. You'll surely crash.
You'll write things down and we will trash
Without mercy. Send your spirit to landfill
Where meanings are ignored because they kill
The death drive of the pretending free."
"Put the glasses on!" And then you'll see.
"Obey! Obey the wretched undead
Advertisers!" You can't recall what they said
And that's the point of their ideology
I'm suspicious of ones who are nice to me.
The blood and milk oozes from the universe udder
Into skies of cells, making blood and blubber.
Transfer joyous labour into banality. Accrue
For capitalists, a bitter exchange value.
Nothing is free for all. The market
Makes whores of creators. You'll cark it
And, freed from the prison of this economy
You'll see, you'll see, you'll see, you'll see, you'll see.