Fucked around with too many mental crystals
Missiles of a high volume that consume optimism
And the feel-good know nothings of a street philosopher
That is all we are, microbes on a layer of shit, feces known
As home, still the everlasting home for our bones and dust
We are the life-powder for future generations, the potential lies
Within each of our hearts and minds, a steady combination of
Fruitful discussion and madness, Dylan theatre of knocking and
Raving, oh the times, yes they are a changing, feet clanging
On grates of conglomerated hate, minute hand is a poison
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