jonathan, just look at this mess we're in: all-perilous, underpinned with a growing flair for our long hair. not again. it's no wonder we've grown so thin; bring all of our prisoners in, mic them up and see if we still care.
our checks, our tropes, our envelopes are in the mail. our backs, our hopes, our floors are sloped, our hearts impaled.
legacies leap out of my ivory teeth; they tongue, hammer, pluck, double-speak, and stop-dead our voices. now what we need is a new rhetorical strategy: a 'point-counterpoint-eulogy' instead of 'pointing at the source of the sound.'
not again, the rent is spent, we're pent-up, bright. but arrogant we waining went without a fight. don't you know 'i told you so' could never hold our boldness back? we're throwing stones, we're young, alone, and we can act.
we dream, we doubt, we scream, we shout that we're not dead. but when in doubt, put records out and bow your head.
jonathan, my temples are caving in. let's never do that again.