Mas tragem Lucifer pra mim
Em uma bandeja pra mim
Em uma bandeja pra mim

Em uma bandeja pra mim



Tis I, a roaming round townian,
Scoping us bloated trout.
We shift afloat in grizzly open mouth;

Locals of shrouded malcontent.
Flopping off wired currents,
cyber flourish sprouts no flower stems.

Fog comprised inertia bogged the global eye from clouded lens.
Sound the rousing cleanse,
dirty destined to purging tech binge.

How many $#&@ing search engines
will you have wrung to learn a lesson?
Now, I don't mean to seem

detached from this happily strung up tapestry.
I'd just rather see a rough patch crush this hashtag academy.
Like Confucius viewing school plays,

we pupils graze from food trays.
No nutrients consumed,
but gruel to fuel the shaded hues grey.

We fuse into a putrid mass,
ballooning through the roof a tomb rate;
A cruising route's shoe-in to

YouTubing doomsday.
All this techno consumption appeases coping corporate jackals.
Brain cell function?

Welcome hemoglobin stored in capsules.
Just a mule's generation shaped in making pixels crystal clear.
Sunk in the abyss, I laugh.

You asked, Do we get signal here?

Let the fires forge everything I've ever needed.

If I afford, I engorge. I'm depleted.
When Hell has risen, I will summon him, calmly.
Em uma bandeja pra mim.


Kicking in the cypher circle,
origin of fire start.

I've one too many matches to be
flickering the lighters' sparks.
My Friar's farce is that I'd like to think

I'm hip to higher arc,
As if they're clinking glasses,
stringing masses from some wire art.

Fiddle in conspired dark;
Twitter's bred you followers.
Self indulge in cult acclaim;

a reigning led from monitors.
The convex, bulging fame; to falsify as progress.
Got that pulse on walking dead

to revive the messiah complex.
Ego tripping archetypes;
Oh, we don't speak no martyr tripe,

Nor weave a papa weasel sleeve.
Ah please, we breach the artifice'.
Oh, I hadn't known these lordly parrots served to starve the rote,

By storming up a hundred forty characters in Carlin quote.
%#@!, I'm pissed as $#&@ at these cunt @@#!-sucker twits.
Just an omen, nix the W to prop the other six.

Ugh, we've run in circles.
I'm hunting without a spear to throw.
No streamline, although you hear the flow.

Here we go.