I am no prophet, nothing special
I am no prophet, nothing special,
I do not even believe in your Chemical Kingdom!
But I am certain, fairly certain, Mr. Marley would hate you too,
Were he here (oh irony of ironies!) to see the fear,
The glutton, molten feeling,
The fun-dip paranoia we could all do without...
Do not take him to accuse your reign!
Do not die in his name!
There is a solemn, serious feel to their April fodder,
Highly ritualized, the New Church,
Why then, Teenage Wasteland?
Can you offer me Life Everlasting?
Show me your golden Promise!
(Is Eternity the price we must pay?)
Do not hate me -
I blame the music. The art,
The high and mighty posturing of the artistic minds.
Go then, Chemical subjects,
Die for art!
Each empty word you say has no echo here,
And no Heaven waits for you.
I ask: Where are you?
And you cannot tell me,
None of you know.
(As my last wish, I'd have you know)
Run! I say, Tremble at the might of History!
Fall down at the feet of time!
Your Golden Hours are nigh!
Shine! I beg of you, Shine!
Oh love, these are the things
I can't say, but I'll write to you,
Should you need it.
I don't think you need it...
You don't need anyone, do you?
Get me out of my head then, Chemical Kingdom,
Don't bother me...
You cannot even save yourself.
(And suddenly, almost as an afterthougt:
Things changed forever)
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