When the media comes
With their digital guns
It's all over
And the narrative love-of-your-life has become a tall order
They speak with the presumption of your ignorance
They are superfluous
And the aging curve has returned your words to degenerates
On and on it goes
From the sons of Mike Foucault
Somewhere else they know
That it's a lie
It's the men in the sky
I took a souvenir away from here
For a drink
And the tender passed the gaslight to help me think
A mob came for me
But I deleted my life
The sex and the news have forced me to shutter my eyes