Letras: Million Dead. Other. It's A Shit Business.

Why call it an artform?
It's lacquered kareoke with a healthy cocaine habit and a make-up department.
Why call it composition?
It's kids entertainment with a coterie of groupie yes-men pushing 'issues' on the easily bemused.
And I wouldn't call it aesthetic or poetic,
Not even pathetic,
But i might call it a spade.
Industry apothecaries are poring over gaping wounds in my lower abdomen.
The blistering remedy retards my recovery
They're cutting out the liver unaware of what it does.
Can i make a confession?
After the operation I am certainly not satisfied with my listening options.
There's something moving but the pulse is dead.
Aomeone's speaking but the crowd has left.
It's so well-packaged and over-sold,
But still so tiring, still so old.
And every teenage afternoon spent rifling racks in record stores in search of gold,
And every compilation tape rerun until it broke on rusted walkman heads,
And every single special song it only took two listens through to learn the words
Were hours cherished and lessons learned.
But you're the kids in the playground pulling hair and pointing fingers because your parents couldn't spoil you with self-esteem.
It's in the look in the eyes,
You are a dog in the hay,
But we are kicking you out a single beat at a time.