Money-Making Sack of Sour Cream
A joke, to gain some bliss while earning a small fee,
Writhing, ripping, tearing hand of doom.
Rotten soul, forgotten past.
Here to stay, gone astray,
How long can it last?
The George, the reigning Thor of all vitality,
Printed, smiling, smirking at the world.
Broomstick prowess, non-slick force.
Dead bloated corpse.
You're caught, now turn around so that the world may see,
Looking lenses never tell a lie.
Your mistake, not mine to make.
Go to court, health report,
Not done, just a quick break.
The masters have us now,
Their hold is firm and strong.
They're jerking you, they're pulling me.
Stopping life eternally.
Die bitch die!
Release your KungFu grip.
What once was lost you'd better find,
Dethrone the God within your mind.
You know we're sick and tired
of all your downplayed lies.
It's obvious what trash you serve,
it's written in your eyes.
What happened to the past we knew,
when you were clean and pure?
The color green is all you see,
degraded worthless quality.