The excrement bubbles, the century slime decays, and the brainwashing government lackeys would have us say it's under control.

Too many heroes stepping on too many toes, too many yes-men nodding when they really mean no.

Take your place in a wiser world of bigger motor cars.

Snot is running down his nose, greasy fingers, smearing shabby clothes.

Give us Direction; the best of goodwill; Put us in touch with fair winds. Sing to us softly, hum the evening's song. Tell us what the blacksmith has done for you.

Did you ever get the feeling that the story's too damn real?

The legends lie cradled in the seagulls call, and the promise they made are ground beneath the sadist's fall.