Chatter Chatter

98 born into hate My Nusu nature can not relate To whitey nations stuck on the moon Glad I'm down here labelled half coon Is all some see Feel bad for Nina Male oppression Is the daily Sold cheap On the daily The mail stokes Oppression daily Yer dads perception Altered daily For 70p Such hate laid plainly See a mirror right there And a noose Stark and bare Not a threat Why you stare It's how it is Let it blare Really hate in general Been stuck up in my mental There's a, there's a, they say They say there's poison in that lake over there They say the kids are strange over there Good times for the old days over there Let it go for the old days from way back when Can you dance or sing Oh you poor thing Hold dreams of wedding rings and millionaire's with pennant rings yet The lakes still black The waters thick Too many lack Mortar and brick Throw some bodies See if it sticks Piles of bodies One more will do the trick One more will do the trick Still hate in general Been forced into my mental There's a chatter chatter in my head Monsters peek from under bed Gerry curled and my mum hurls Singing humming no ones there Talking laughing, that voice there Crying screaming knock knock Shaking leaning, who's there Creaking freaking, is that door Opened up and smelted down Overwhelmed and leave my town, Mr. Mayor is running round screams 65 in noiseless sound Just focus now Can you feel that sun Can you feel yourself If the day is done Chatter fills my void my subject lost in illusions But with my problems I'm under no illusions But what of you What speaks through That mental static Dressed as you Smells like you Tastes like you Weighs on you Well that's not you They build your Rome You think that's Rome Augustan heads Lay in mud Split and broken The cracks in marble The rapture looms Mr. Mayor screams patriarchal The smoke is choking It's way too carnal The rapture looms The past in plumes I see the end, it's empty I feel the end, it's endless I touch the end, it's nothing I am the end I'm nothing Watch it burn fiddle in hand ashen tomes, you'll get that though A bunch of English bones Scattered through your English homes Placed in piles according to your definition of the English isles Skull shavings Skull shavings look just like coconut except for the blackened scars and forcep marks That leave us with a glut of savings Stuck with Mr. Mayor and his cravings Till my perceptual doors are closed to the front yet open To the endless My perpetual flaws are forgotten so abrupt caught senseless in ascendance So feckless and helpless 65 65 65 65 65 65 65 65 65 65 65 65 65 65 65 65 65 65 65 65 65 65 65