Beating your chest because you beat the rest, those who oppose are zero. Nothing enshrined behind the eyes, feeding the ravenous ego. When the curtains fall and we exit the stalls, what will become of the hero? Does vanity endure, hiding the flaws in the dominion of Nero? Vultures only love you when you're dead, they'll cut out your heart and mount your head. Genetic religion, the gaping void of the human condition. Kneel with the weak at the throne of fiction, fucking kneel… Thoughtopsy. Watching your back for the phantom attack, behind all the smiles lie the fangs of the pack, you don't own your position, demise is imminent, reach out a hand they tear it off at the ligament. At the end of the day when it's all stripped away and you sit on the throne of your empire, all you survey, a vision in grey, a cackling vaudeville satire. Starvation of the mind, monoxide of the heart, coma of the soul, no way out.
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