they perform like little automatons
never against the grain but always against time
held in place by some invisible bonds
the journeys they take always inside the mind
to play their parts, purposely faulty
yet no purpose that they themselves can surmise
self perpetuated afterlives keep them haughty
sabotaged into their own immortal demise
a job well done thankless milestones keep passing
yet they'll suffer for post-mortem praise
for their sadness gives them reasons to keep laughing
dead long before they ever reach graves
fun is work and work is fun
collectors of nothing filed into the same stratum
a billion smiles transmit uselessly in unison
a signal comprised from the same corrupt datum
They'll live forever under colored lights
Die a million deaths with each curtain call
Another town to reach before twilight
For Mr. Electrico owns them all