But we really gotta book

It here, you maniac

I’ve no longer any interest

In fucking with these fluky amateurs

These kicked-and-tired leaders

Looking so goddamn resolute

And content

While they’re sucking down

Eighty-dollar lobster tails

By the slippery dozen

Slurping up the juices

Slopping down red wine

Tiny bits of lobster floaters

In the glass

But it doesn’t matter

It’s on to the macho

Steak knife slicing

Into the perfect medium-rare

Filet, itself ripped from the worked-over

Hides of the applauding public

Which would shit into a bucket

And drink it like a rainwater milkshake

If it meant their beloved country

Would survive the night, which is

Good intentions, good intentions

Anything we’ll do, fucking anything

Just you gotta stop fucking around

These lies, this wholesale raping

Of everything

Don’t tell me it’s in the name

Of US, because it’s not

And watch yourselves soon

There’s something truly beautiful

Spinning in manic circles

Its anger smoldering

Underground for now

But it’s coming, it’s coming

For you