These assholes aren't insomniacs.
They're vegetables that have been exposed to
too much sunlight and designer drugs.

You're just cattle, astray from the grazing pasture
and meandering blindly down the two-lane.
In my face and on my turf.

Sheep milling around the back of the shearing barn,
unaware that this time they'll be butchered at dawn,
instead of the usual quick ensemened raping.

My toast comes, and you guffawed.
My coffee came, and you snorted.
When the bacon comes will you have
a f***ing break-down?

So, get out of my face with your television afflictions
that you're masking as something else to impress me.
A diagnosis encased in lethargy, masturbation and
white-trash delusions of Wal-Mart.

You're just searching for the next party and someone to puke on.
The disease you have is being alive and never having lived.

You're a waste of breath, the years you've spent
And a waste of breath the years behind.

You're just a bunch of f***ing animals.
The clubs are closed ... so go home.





From: Observations of a Dead Man (2007)