Methadone Tears Over Spilled Milk

 
Worshipping subservient fiends as a means to find an idol
Every body shooting up the repulsive poultice just to leave their families idle
As the incessant battle begins to rattle silicone bones and vinyl vitals
Beating bass beats through filthy streets like tapped feet at recitals
 
While the crash cymbal plays as my metronome
Reading past ash symbols in a cryptic tome
Leading last rites, deflecting every limbic stone
As the war drum bleeds in a rhythmic tone
 
How'd we find ourselves in such a poor predicament we wonder?
People plummet to the plunger, under thumbs of the whore mother
The cord smothers your poor brother as blood flows, the floors covered
Failing like none other, her core need to feed the hunger
Finding many feet asunder, Hear their fury through the thunder
Malevolent matrons playing patrons as they pocket potent plunder
 
Pickled placenta polluted with poppy plant particulates
Sores days old, nothing stays gold with the rapist touch of barbiturates
Through your half mast stare, vacant and impaired, children beg for a parent's interest
With a room full of cherubs, you lift your chair up and hurl it in a scene of belligerence.
 
Reverberating verbiage screamed in chorus from the masses
As insurgents surge to the verge to merge the psychosocial classes
Drawing lines with their fists while compiling lists of the cookie cutter cast list
Keeping frenimies close with a venomous dose of neurosis for the castless
 
Is your lack of resistance to packaged sickness curse or salvation?
Born of powdered power from your Happy Hour bathroom break vacation.
Children hide from the noise as you kick their toys in a rage fit from cessation
When you begin to notice consciousness, you shut it out with medication
Every verb destroys when my words deploy, my songs on every station
I spew truth through the wires, nothing crossed, my word is beyond contestation.
 
Your faded fickle fetal forced to forfeit to the needle
With the loss of health, the hand life dealt appears daedel
Twist the tourniquet, spin the flint, returning the burning filament
To the crack globe, rotating the hot rod like it's glass blown.
 
Bumpin flows feel like elbows in a mosh pit, lead the hierarchy on my Maslow shit
 
Passing lanes of cane like Candy Land, I spit game on some Hasbro shit