Its Routine

 
Its routine now,
all for the the misers, none(statistically) the wiser
the chimes of the unkind come crashing , hauling around sacred cows
you get to bow or else set on fire.

Seeing the beauty in the rocket launch
the lords of the sting spread their wings
the majestic agenda needs no boss
has its own sentimental head games to distract from the sounds of the uncouth that could make them cringe

Kill and then shred crocodile tears
Turn it into an industry
Mouths wide open, swallowing the delectable distance in every direction, at one with the weird
chemistry coming off the master slave dichotomy.

Listening you can hear the thundering losing its voice of choice
From time to time
moments of freedom tickling in the bones of the sublime.