Drum Roll

Direction has none or so little as few.
What has this monster so great done to you?
Babbling and babbling into a phone
Fate of poor bastards born into this zone
Tattle and prattle and leering and sin
Soak all your sorrows in fucking and gin
Carry me, marry me, give me a child
The bars made of iron and steel so mild
Rattling, rattling, beds made of cash
Spawning an army imprisoned at last
Ticking and splitting, your hair turning grey
Numbered much fewer the rest of your days
Turning back, yearning back dreams are not lies
Wrinkles are ringing the depths of your eyes.

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