A wartorn town
|
A snapping sound
|
Takes a child down
|
He wins the stray bullet lottery
|
Reporters there with corresponding flare
|
Asking "Who would dare let a fight get so ugly?"
|
|
Then his story beamed home to me
|
Where I'm complacently watching TV
|
And in between, a producer's carving
|
the truth to give me the juiciest piece
|
|
Every channel shows me a handsome close
|
Spinning yarns that make me dizzy
|
Woven hand-me-downs from the man on top
|
Meat to keep me cozy on those bitter nights
|
Insomniac eyes
|
When I dare to peep through their curtains
|
But why bother when I could wrap
|
Their newspeak tight 'round my arms
|
And smile to sleep
|
|
Then history pumped through the factory
|
Polished to keep us disarmed to the teeth
|
And reality dies with our memories
|
Unless we capture it now with our ink and lenses
|
That want truth like hopeless romantics
|
Pirates sailing airwaves
|
To ransack bottom-line synchophantics
|
Give me the cutlass and toss their anchors in the atlantic
|
And start telling our story
|
|
-----------------
|
Closing Time At The Distortion Factory
|
| Marathon |
