Barbarians, fathers, souls, buried, to rot with the flesh, shame, hidden under the finest of threads,
Primates are not in the finest of threads and hate the future.

Launch ships to the sky, paint signs on a cave wall, breed humans from scratch, scare of witches with maple.

Obliterate countries out of sight, or a man with the thrust of a spear, for the joy of spite.

Fight for the last drop of water, or drown in the floods to come, minor variations are slight,
The point is: This earth shall end with us.

Citizen 2.1, has your sense of justice been swept aside, alongside prejudice? Washed down the gutters to the broken children,
Your children, donor, washed down, chocktails, elixir of the ruined cities, become the marble palace you' ve earned,
Cities, become the tomb you have earned.

Despise the past as a warning for the hairless creature,
The vague, bendable space, grey, bordered by
Corrosive monuments of failure,
How fast evolution can come to pass!

Make haste not to be overtaken,
By the future turning, nodding its head, asking:
Are not you the wretched, primate?

Remember to vick up the lates disorder,
To match tomorrow, in the finest of threads.
Cram your collared thoughts into commuter trains,
Those empty thoughts,
Into where the skulls are membranes.