Unlock the montage of rage,
And the sage like smell of apocalypse, now!
You cannot save the sealed caged emotions,
With not even the slightest notion to turn the page.
Unzip the age of substitution,
Delusions fill your narcissistic mind.
This time it is my Revolver-Lution,
With tons of stale looters to rob you blind.
The ever clear notations of Kombucha,
Fill the soaked, lifeless streets.
With the mobsters that always want to shoot ya,
Or the lovers to sweep you off your feet.
This is the irony we deal with,
To fuck up, means to die too late.
It's gotten so bad, even in chess,
You cannot win with a checkmate.