Wake up call, left hook to the jaw. Spitting teeth and 
double entendres. Marionette's cross has become my 
wildcard. I know not what I do. My armoire is overflowing 
with others' cloaks, but I will never be revealed. 
Wiretaps to promote security as the Kevlar unravels to 
embrace the shot in the back. I strike a Lennonesque 
descent to my concrete utopia at the puppeteer's command, 
but now I'm back at the start. Stalemate, old chap. A 
jejune discourse of two-bit riddles keeps us entertained, 
the moles have accomplished so much that we will never 
begin to recognize. Life these days reads like Pollock 
and shocks like Mapplethorpe. It is me against them, in a 
sick, codependent fashion. Magnetamerica. All rise for 
the respectful applause, for I am the face of your lust 
and the voice of your deity and my predecessor knows I've 
taken as many stones as He has. Nail me to your sticks 
and comb my coifs. The lingering odor of dry rot brings 
forth the moles to further my bidding, led to negate the 
dreams of man. Explanations projected as expulsions 
through the nostrils, free of such formalities as proper 
blessings. Hindsight, second guessing, these things are 
dangerous to a man such as myself. This is Oedipus at its 
most rock 'n' roll. Let's set these bonfires and 
celebrate like the mindless epicureans we so proudly are. 
My blood is thick with oil and I'm seeing stars. My hair 
turns as white as my past...but I will never be revealed. 
Cut these strings, I've served my time. I'm a real little 
boy. Disarm the liars and burn them alive. All hail the 
new world order.