Theres a product (for you)
Theres a portion (for me)
There is visible distortion from the fading static glimpses seen through a storm of crushed debris
Crossing a blighted landscape of women with open chests
They smile fiercely while their ribcages glower in the
Sand storm of that benighted landscape where naught will grow
But worry and waste and cynicism
Their breasts drip constantly acidic seeds that plant in the barren golden dust
And make screaming modern infants who are deformed and pitiful
Who cry to their father who is four thousand industrial pistons firing steadily
Through the desolation just over a dune I dare not cross
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