Fabricated Spaceman

Facing graceland Soundscape wasteland Fabricated spaceman With the ace in his hand. World-spinning laundry mat. A lot of lauded technocrats Applauding prodded acrobats To show God their backs. You thought I’d finished, but I can’t diminish the rhyme locked in my mentality. Senality will block this utility someday, but today is still a fun day to spray words like paint on a blank sheet to taint a corporate landscape with fate cries a rebellion. Replies from the oblivion of Cyberland. revive the hands that type and hype of our cup of revitalization. A recital for a nation of wanderers, ponders floundering, taking a pounding from an elite of naysayers. Obeyers of layers of deception, instead we bespeakk the soothsayers’ reception. Tread to free weak-minded, binded listeners, pensioners, living off a past pool of symbols. It’s simple, their route. They don’t have to shout harsh sounds like symbols, but then we resemble, mere fauna, content with our sauna. Not noticing, we're pariahs, living off the backs of the poor, cause our ancestors kept treating them like whores. No more worse. They didn’t give them purses for the services. And I reserve this right to ignite a bonfire - and write. Perspire in my trials, Saving these files for the next generation. but not seeking veneration. Facing graceland Soundscape wasteland Fabricated spaceman With the ace in his hand. World-spinning laundry mat. A lot of lauded technocrats Applauding prodded acrobats To show God their backs.