Stir the melting pot.
Download the embryo.
Denatured the senses.
Ostracized the calico.
Every right to feel disillusioned.
Set in time, and stone; and we’ve grown to accept conclusions.
Given reason to emulate ten thousand fold.
If we just bury our heads in the sand; maybe we’ll find some gold.
Ejecting futures from polished stones upon faces waxed; wasted and that’s the tact.
Whatever it takes to taste the facts.
I apologize my mind is corrupted.
Nuance can sometimes be destructive.
Not that I never myself erupted.
Though sometimes it feels I’m the only one who can hear the cruxes ring.
It stings when the angels sing of your destined lot; but that’s just how it goes.
Stir the melting pot.
Download the embryo.
Denatured the senses.
Ostracized the calico.
Every right to feel disillusioned.
Set in time, and stone; and we’ve grown to accept conclusions.
Given reason to rust we find ourselves losing.
Losing our damn minds; crimes be damned if unrecognized by the criminal.
A heroic subconscious like heroin; the bridges are liminal.
Elevating to higher ground on the backs of the classless.
Cultures like fermented milk; the studious lap it up like Egyptian cats did.
Probiotic panorama, almonds spilled the petri dish, if you didn’t avoid the needle, believe me; you’ll wish you did.
You’re not the only one who can recognize hidden meaning in the ink blots or the words that echo from your stereo.
Stir the melting pot.
Download the embryo.
Denatured the senses.
Ostracized the calico.
Every right to feel disillusioned.
Set in time, and stone; and we’ve grown to accept conclusions.
Given.
Given; but to what end?
Gatling gun of words; bullets from your lips spin endlessly.
Fucking parrot.
Talk too much, think too little; that’s plain to see.
When the shit hits the fan don’t come calling on me.
I was only a messenger, but they shot me anyways; c’est la vie.
Dirty bombs raining.
Drones aiming.
People panicking to stock up on corporate subsidies.
Never budging once to put trust in the voice of the voiceless, would rather get fucked up every weekend and wake up Monday with their aching heads in the toilet…
Whatever.. it’s like tending to children that aren’t your own; as you grow old and rot..
You played your hand; it’s too late to fold.
Stir the melting pot.
Download the embryo.
Denatured the senses.
Ostracized the calico.
Every right to feel disillusioned.
Set in time, and stone; and we’ve grown to accept conclusions.
Given.
Given, but to what end?
Given.
Given, but to what end?
Ejecting futures from polished stones upon faces waxed; wasted and that’s the tact.
Whatever it takes to taste the facts. –Michael Kabu Ament
STÖK 