Uncivil Savages
Here we are, a nation of uncivil savages.
Bumping into walls, knocking over the furniture,
blind to the fact that the room we’re in
isn’t even ours.
Identity? What a joke.
It’s a mess of recycled sound bites and half-truths,
spun out like the web of a spider high on bad dope.
George Orwell’s laughing his ass off in the back,
maybe sipping whiskey, shaking his head.
It’s not the left. It’s not the right.
It’s just jabs and crosses, a nice little show.
The real damage, the real kill,
comes with the headkick you never see,
brought to you by your friendly neighborhood
Weapons of Mass Distraction.
Flying elephants, underground donkeys—
who gives a damn?
We’re all shopping at the same supersized mall
jacked up on steroids, neon lights buzzing overhead,
propaganda posters hanging like cheap art
next to racks of aborted dreams.
And what are we doing?
800 million eyes, glued to glowing screens,
watching, waiting, scrolling past the snakes
slithering under the walls.
They’re coming for the kids first,
turning them into slaves.
Then they’ll poison the rest of us,
and we’ll call it anxiety,
pop a pill and go back to pretending
we’re free.
So tell me—is this what freedom looks like?
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