17600
I smoke, and think upon those who built temples.
Don't worry about social credentials.
Just the basics, keep it simple.
Make moves without creating too many ripples.
For people are fickle.
Laugh now, cry later, isn't a riddle.
For those who do to much, end up in a pickle.
Cucumbers, soaking in vinegar.
It's cold outside, icicles.
Not one tear will trickle.
If you have no class, dismissal.
Explosive thoughts, like impact from missiles.
That surpass the flesh, and gets down to the gristle.
Gain attention like blowing a whistle.
Sculpting what you need to see like a chisel.
More vivid than the TV you watch, supplied by cable.
Fiber optic brainwashing at your service, your not you.
Invasion, not of the body, but the mental.
Overseen by deputy dog, life's a cartoon.
Buffoons turn to baboons.
Beating there chest to redderick.
Not realizing they haven't had a free thought since they came out the womb.
Mental celibacy.
Abstinence from thinking freely.
So the March of the wooden soldiers moves on.
As the lambs follow the heard to the slaughter.
I move low in theory, with these midnight marauders.
