Citronella

I stood before the glittery borders of new radius

In search of the fabled city of mud and crushed velvet

What I found was a gutter where the love of entertainment

Meets the lust for blood and demerits

Cutters of the pie, throw your summers in the sky

Collar-pop Jolly Roger die, motherfucker, die!

Apache on a ship shape, in Bristol fashion

Snuck a jammy through the red tape and tiptoed past him

Worm teeth grinding feverishly below

As little organic hacksaws eager to feed and grow

So when it's Blackhawk over the glass walk

They surface up through the cash crops

With clippers for your belly-up mascots and never dine alone

Meanwhile, back at sea level, it was home by home zone for zone

Bloom County's homeless riot for home ownership;

I hope you put gas in the motor-home and know the roads

I studied with the finest combs stuck under my thumb

As opposed to the loaded nose who pray Armageddon is numb

And that's unevenly rendered

To those who grew up thinking faith was a surrender of reason, but not a reason to surrender

Catch the Liberty Fires' catalog:

40 torched orchids and citronella for Algernon

Don and Vagabond, alike, repent

This shit should have been, "Beta burns Babylon. The End."

And when the radio stars climbed up out of the floors

To murder the medium that shot 'em 30 years before

They said...

(Kill... television! Kill... television! Kill... television!)

(Difficult... isn't it?)

And when the cutters of the pie throw their summers in the sky

No love lost, baby, the future is so bright

(Kill... television! Kill... television! Kill... television!)

(Difficult... isn't it?)

Nothing says "charm" like an armored car

Taking the clone-farm 'tards to the arms bazaar

We were the homemade marker makers born to pour the marsh ink into right guard parts

And march through the gauntlet of car alarms

No harps, no delusions of losing with something prettier

Than ash around the metacarpal still clutching the teddy bears

But we can run with scissors through the city fair

Or situate the nuzzle with the subtle art of splitting hairs!

Double park the shuttle, some will arc the funneled cutty sark

Where budding narcs target the gushing heart in the muddy Clarks

These are the vices of the p-noid bastards

Who will chew whatever tablets blur the axioms fastest

But crews lose lunches by the hundreds

Lose electricity, lose gas, phone, plumbing

Humming, "Keep your mouth closed. Keep your cows cloned. Go!"

"I am the pulse of this fucking town, homes, no!"

My, what a convenient embargo

At least I'll always know which side of the gun I'm supposed to buy the farm from

The too-far-gone kicks, still in the box

Fix, still in the pill in his sock

Chilling, gill in the slop, and a million watch Gideon scribes

But once the arc honor pussy and bribes, the animals will divide

And that's a win for the garish who keep charity in the parish

While profiting off the lack of a marriage (amongst the classes.)

And when the radio stars climbed up out of the floors

To murder the medium that shot 'em 30 years before

They said...

(Kill... television! Kill... television! Kill... television!)

(Difficult... isn't it?)

And when the cutters of the pie throw their summers in the sky

No love lost baby, the future is so bright

(Kill... television! Kill... television! Kill... television!)

(Difficult... isn't it?)

The mobile infantry is so postal

Coast into the quotient provoking the local Pistol Pete

Choking his liberty and justice quotas and cloaking his folk in smithereens;

Smokey little pile of bloody pulp and co-dependencies

Dopey, no surrender, bender in effect

Sole defenders of the longest night New York had never slept

And there were jumping jacks and whistlers over Christmas

Like Rockets From The Crypt spilling the festive morning beverage of your preference

I step in Hog Heaven, stony, with no weapons

Pissing on teleprompters, selling megaphones to hecklers

Who broadcast 80 million versions of the sermon

For that one indisputable masterpiece before the curtains

Pale, Arcadian moon, high-definition, flat plasma

IMAX, city-wide transfer

Artificial Einstein-Rosen out the tenement

Ease into the "Xanadu", let it hammer the tension out

I'm talking cool, calm, dominant phenomenal

Monitor face to the wall opposite

U.F.O.'s and locusts sing the same old song

While the Weathermen get retarded as the day is long

And when the radio stars climbed up out of the floors

To murder the medium that shot 'em 30 years before

They said...

(Kill... television! Kill... television! Kill... television!)

(Difficult... isn't it?)

And when the cutters of the pie throw their summers in the sky

No love lost baby, the future is so bright

(Kill... television! Kill... television! Kill... television!)

(Difficult... isn't it?)