They love it when you’re up,
With a pail in your hand,
A bag of yellow corn,
A pocket full of rice,
They celebrate the deed,
Of feeding the machine,
The one way that they know,
And love since they were seeds,
You come and say your name,
And take the rising stage,
You take your pail and state,
Its contents and your ways,
In some variations, yeah, it’s acceptable to change,
But often not than more, you’d rather play the game,
Cause ain’t no other way,
Of feeding the machine,
I heard they hung a guy,
For spicing up the meal,
He made a cake from corn with dark coriander seeds,
He made a honey fountain too,
Kebabs and chicken wings,
And hoped by God these folks would love the change in pace,
I heard by morn the rope hadn’t run his spirit cold,
Another bites the dust, for feeding the machine,
I guess it’s worth the effort,
That rush of dopamine,
When you get that big applause,
Dropping bland, bite-sized, safe, and formulaic corn,
That feeling when they worship you,
And call that shit unique,
When all you did was pass the test,
And aced,
How to feed the damn machine.
Comments
Post a Comment