What's a guy got to do to martyr himself nowadays?
the pigs hang em high on a cross his whole entire life
tug at the flesh and run the freaks out from where they come from
no matter what you say
the truth is never nearly as entertaining as the spin
like maybe it all is the lowest common denominator
and maybe people do just accept it all at face value
maybe never enough know enough
or even fewer give a shit
maybe there is a new american century and
maybe there was a manifest destiny flag flying in the hearts of every dead cowboy
living for the grand illusion
of the american dream.
maybe it was already dead
and maybe only the silly romantics believed that they believed in it
maybe if we all knew the truth
we would wish you could go on lying to us
maybe we would all beg for the day
we could ride our own 44 magnum
to the sky
on the last day that that ticket could ride
lights out and bye bye baby bye bye
heres to all the pigs
wondering why
and all I could say is
"cant you fucking read man"
there was a man and there was a lifetime
of seeing through the seething bloody entrails of a machine
dooming mankind in for one fear and loathing ticket to ride after another
seeking out our dreams
and perverting our fantasies
so that every single thing that we want to think we need
turns us into the pigs that we all think we arent
so we all just close our eyes
and spank out another hey rube after another
as if anyone gave a fuck to find out why
and what happened to that sick twisted imagination
that fed us a line of shit that we needed to hear
the pervert that martyred himself in the most disgusting
hole of a human being trapped in the most self destructive
spin that never went far enough out of control
until the pigs couldn't reach him
and the good guys elected the right guy
but the pigs kept on multiplying
humping and fucking their way into oblivion
and the reality that no acid freak could ever imagine then
is today
today the pigs run uncontested
and no one understands why the only one spelling the truth inbetween the drug stained lines
is remembered for the drug stained lines
and the truth is debatable
for a guy that has found a higher cross to hang his despicable self from
waiting for someone
some pisssed off pig to
find the balls to martyr him
and give him one good reason
to eat a bullet
for your sad and disgusting cause
so he had to prescribe his own medicine
and damn the stories
and the reasons why
the words are all a writer has to leave behind
no one feels the passion deep enough to pass the pipe
and smoke it up until you believe
whatever sick twisted fantasy you sold to yourself
and if you want to know
why hunter didnt leave a note
all you have to do
is pick up a book
turn the page and read
the whole damn thing
not for the exicitement of the chase
that being a reader gives you the distance of the pleasure of
but for the fear and the loathing of the running
as if there is no reason to run
except that the story hasnt been written and the deadline is doom
so the impending doom
lights up the room
and down the mojo wire
he types into a fax machine
nothing works unless the whole world is twisted and upside down
and this is not drama for dramatic effect
this is the entirety of the truth of the matter
of the entirety of the story
told from the inside
of the death of the american dream
as big as you can dream it
it will all fall down
and you will hang on for one more reason
to believe