Bad Fruit

I'm the artisan, I am a Cezanne I'm a still life frozen in time Got no mountain to climb, can't turn water to wine The process ain't that simple But we are all deleted scenes We're loose inserts from magazines We're just sewer rats, broken thermostats Caveats, Kerouac on the road to a freakshow Of lonely accountants on podiums Policed by the dwarfs and the society Of the Siamese, plagued by tropical disease This is the new reality The circus freaks are walking your streets Just like you they wanna be free from all this More bad fruit, new bad batch, new bad news Same old decree absolutely Same sub-par wicker basket delivery A lavender sick bucket beamed down from Aphrodite Infestation of the pre-frontal cortex, rotting from the inside Maggots writhe, maggots crawl, fleeing from the hovel where the soul should reside The palace flophouse opens its doors, more bad news, new crawling fruit