Fame throwa pass out the gold, the diamond
Watch, the last reward, all the things we had
Before you sold us out and took it all.

Head-borne cries from zenith !@#%s, astral
Rites from dead-end ruts.
These kids are sick-end wars

"One of the nation's spies.
One of our first recruits.
Click with her leather thighs

One of our first recruits."
How can you know? In the distance lies
A grower, nee rode off, king fame throwa

Son of groupie, red-worn sexan: spent his
Cash convincing us that the desert was
A starscape and sold our lives for a

Satellite so we could cry:
"Naked, naked foul" (sic)