More like Drekker;
A pile of festering filth in the night,
That’s rotted and writhing just out of sight,
from a neural-shocked matrix dump made out of light.
Corporate stooges, suits and wage-slaves,
all for creds from the brazen and brave,
he who’s in shadows runs to their grave
but is never en-chained nor known to be knave.
A ballad of futures where fortunes forgot,
those on the bottom that secured them their spot.
Is it a vision, a feature, a nightmare, or not?
Or is it our future on our heels that is hot?
The anarchic flux of states and of coin,
all at the mercy of the soft corporate loin.
For the common man it’s little but a kick to the groin,
a star-hot, bright visage, they’re never to join.
Magic bejeweled an eclipse of two worlds,
that joined at both tops and bottoms unfurled,
enmeshed to give birth to a sixth now hurled,
through death and destruction, the fire it curled.
If you’ve a long hallowed late-night to run,
beneath sewers and brewers, the setting sun,
don’t forget to keep your wits out for some fun,
‘neath the corporate pants of an blinded old nun.
For the night never tires,
nor ends before dawn,
but the sun it is setting,
and you’ve shadows to run.