In the end these are only words
Arranged to obey an apparent reason
Pixel spit on electronic paper
Rising and falling with modal season
I don’t speak for the herded masses
Content to eat the status quo
I can’t wear those optimistic glasses
I’ll take my meals down below
In the selfish cellar of self-delusion
Where I have come to grow old
Wrapped in the glory of cold seclusion
Finger strikes between key and mould
Spew forth algorithms ill-defined
Non-inclusive and bitter sweet
Won’t show the way to any mind
Won’t paint the lines upon the street
Thankful for the malcontents and ill-adepts
Those who, like me, cannot conform
To the lie that’s left on the morning steps
The paper mask that’s called the norm
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