Immaculate grammar is what i hear from all
Grotesue hair styles as i walk down the hall
Smells of cheap perfume bring me towards
The masses of the classes and segregated hordes
Could i get some fries with that? And some mortification
Perhaps a strawberry shake, with a deteriorating Nation
Drugs in my children, Lots of poision on my addiction
I could use a side of injustice and some wallstreet friction
Now im not tryin to b*tch and complain
But its hard when moneys all that makes campaigns
Not brains just names with sent bottles of chapmagne
Inhumane while they tell us to be quiet & mundane
Revolt? Why id never get my hands dirty
Id rather watch this sh*t crash like a chinese derby
Watch it get sucked up like a starving kirby
F*ck im grateful i wont make it past the year Twenty Thirteen
Tell me what you think
Just a quick jot. I wrote it down at work.