If you look the part you'll get the job
In last year's trousers and your old school shoes
The truth is son, it's a buyer's market
They can afford to pick and choose
Scrap the extras cut out the spareparts let's keep our eyes wide open.
Fuck the idol reject the star let's feed ourselves some struction.
Convention blackmails creativity this lack of challange kills me.
Manipulate the obvious. Cowards bought by traditionalist manners.
Scream at the herd that are heard the most without substance and with useless banners.
The rhymes of revolution.
Poetry written in gasoline.
your art is worth nothing