So you like cardboard names, hunger fuelled meals to ration
harrowing waves of sorrow in an overcrowded station.
"Good, so wipe the fountain full of tears
for we, not you, are in for a bountiful salvation."
So you like swelling sores, as long as there's pills to cure
the aches and feverish pains radiate in vain, as screams sound more.
"Good. For we exclaim the destractionary gain, the discharge that drains
'pon the destructionary visuals that populate the echoing applause,
for an encore."