Dead Generation

The bleeding has ceased And my organs have scabbed over With cigarettes and shredded throats into a microphone And drowning out everything with little white flower buds within the ears But twist the wrong way Turn to see the wrong vortex at the wrong moment in the paradox of ill people And scabs are ripped again And so the grey bloody rain mess seeps out once again into the stomach Eating another ulcer in a quite ironic fashion If not dark This unintentional self mutilation becomes Quite reminesscent and reflective Of the ills of the ill of the poster child For a dead society Of drones With razor blades And the romance of chemicals In a menthol upper middle class white suburban Over-privileged Self-wallow pity party Of the past That goes on for years too long Because negative attention is better than none at all Mutily as the main course Whoring themselves out to pigs for dessert And add in a broken cigarette full of father problems And mix it with some pills and booze and herbs to run away and away When the only way away is to Wake up Smell the fucking roses And grow up Because the world doesn't stop for a few self-loathing deviants And the train comes by again Behold the dead generation Hear the lacerated symphony And hang the brainwashed head Til death