Popculture

I saw you, souls, ripped by suffering

Rattling on this stretching rack

Coercion-laden, peeled by haste

Purulent thy wounds, cambered in welter

Gathered on civilization's Golgotha

Driven by staffs of compulsion, like cattle

To bow before white walls:

The modern god of correct knowledge

Pushed, constantly forward, if only forth

To the slaughter of the soul called popculture

Because the show must go on, for the sick pleasure

Of those conceited with their knowledge, pseudohuman

Their obtuse muzzles, full of führerisms

Vomitting phrase offals into our ears

So that we should squabble: which one is the best one?

Even free choice has become a warrant

And all of us are blind to our enslavement,

To the skunks who thrive upon our souls

Ever forced into treadmill, so we could be robbed

more by them, who parade in human leather