DEADNECK MANIFESTO
Tongues polish shit heels to the cancerous joy of an upturned short bus full of ratfuck marks. An all-time prick-sore thoroughly consumed by the fear of inauthenticity that it self-sabotaged into an assault charge. I heard you were nice in an email twenty years ago. That in person, you'd shake hands with the same one that beat the living shit out of teenagers you fuck behind the back of your dying wife, who you also like to smack around for the sake of aesthetic terrorist armor built by a bullied kid for them to wallow in all the way to the cusp of an old age annhiliative ideation would return to claim. But hey man, you had a good fifteen years at the end there; laundering hard right talking points for the benefit of whoever stuck around from the good 88 days, eager to nibble at the table scraps dropped on the floor by the pod person scammer class while grumbling "they owe their stroke all to me", jealous over their ability to dark monetize the coarse generalities, hack miserablism, and “racial realist” crackshittery that you could only ever make blowback toward you nose job. It's a hell of a lineage... one we must answer for while searching far and wide for the next grumpy twelve year old to dole out lazy insults, drunk uncle sexism, desperate contrarianism; and deadbeat dad self-pitying.
You don’t know just how old hat you are
Rattling on about handguns and ritual scars
Center of attention, the in crowd’s special guest
So many people are so easily impressed.
Shock the bourgeoisie and sell them back their dread
Got a name in ’77, you’ll milk it till you’re dead
A few half-baked ideas sold as the perfect pose
We’d all look cooler in the emperor’s new clothes.
Once your words had such a subversive ring
Now it’s the same old decadent shit and it doesn’t mean a thing
Bored of all the things with which you are obsessed
I’m not so easily impressed.
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