Your smiles and your dreams played on the radio machine
like a self-help textbook of television repeats.
We call you by your face, not by your name.
There's no attempt to steal your soul and sell it at half price
if you're handing us your heart on a silver platter.
Give us your arts and we'll give you the green
to accompany your self-inflicted, human guillotine.
Step to the left, you've been victimized.
With the booze and the bleeds drawing shadows on your wall,
you're a solid incentive for the public downfall.
What a master of disguise, you scream,
with Satan's angels breathing down your neck
and picking at your throat at its talented seams,
searching and scrounging for the last bit of hope, cash, liquid body fat,
to feed to the vultures of the weekly magazine.
The simples of lives and lies were lost at the cost of fortune's daily bread
with halos on your fingers and wings as your blanket
and a thorny vine wrapped around your neck.
Sell us your grief and we'll sell you the best
of the newest skeleton beauties that have laid to rest,
like you, six feet underground,
a plaster smile upon a human frown, a cry for help in life's expulsion
as we laugh at the loss and move on
to the next excuse of inhuman repulsion.