How does it feel? Reporter in your face.
Tell us all about it – this fall from grace.
You stand for truth but only tell us lies;
stabbed in the back, we never see your eyes.
Your fingertips are flecked with buzzard’s blood,
all our rhymes and reasons nipped in the bud.

Have we lost our way, driving home the gains?
Facts are flawed, we pick over what remains.
We bet on races with broken-down nags
and collect our thoughts in recycled bags.
The public pose you flaunt, there in the crowd,
is that really you, so crass and so loud?

Do we think we’re real, wearing plastic smiles?
We can’t tune in – we fiddle with dials.
We’re flip and we’re flash, we grovel and stray;
grabbing for the cash, too busy to pray.
Faith can be fleeting, we sing out of tune;
we stare at the sun then howl at the moon.

Do you court ruin, marry at first sight?
You fuck with your conscience by dark of night.
A romantic kiss, or vile porn at nine;
sensory shivers, down arthritic spine.
You laugh your silly heads off, lost for words,
then die dirt poor with gemstones in your turds.

Madness or dream? Message in a bottle,
a walk in the park, a twist of the throttle.
We spin our wheels but the traction is stuck;
sit down to banquets, then pebbles we suck.
A feather’s touch, or a hair of the dog;
splinters of wisdom from a hardwood log.

Have our joyful dreams gone in spiral smoke? 
We choked on our smog – progress is a joke. 
Forests are felled and our rivers run dry;
don’t eat my dust as I let these thoughts fly.
Waste-deep in garbage, counting shooting stars –
we trashed our world so we’re going to Mars.