Generational

Pfft, oh!

Oh god damn,

you think that this world that it thinks it's a sham.

Everybody takes a part of me, thinking that they wouldn't think twice at the thought of me.

But they think of themselves, like they think what they ought to be.

Modeled and twisted,

these lips are the rhymes of the world that ain't gifted.

Working minds, working time. Ha!

What is that? More than the rift of a crime!

I couldn't be damned if they think their worth more than mine.

And you know, there's something inside of me.

Anger built up, like the curse speaks in spite of me.

I take in and I take, but the hands at my ends draw in fists with each breath that I take.

Leveled with seething- the besmirched generation just takes as they fake like a guest that ain't leaving.

Oh!

There's no ethic! No, no longer like the first generational plotter.

The cries and the pleas, they will shake the air. No. No harder, working to hoard as they steal life like Gods or-

Yes, god damn, the silence is what it will, shake all the land.

Take all the time, with the muck and the grime.

There is no society when the ones who scream when they die.

So, oh, oh god damn, there's something to think when I think I'm worth a damn.

Something so pitiful, ungrateful inside of me.

Am I really that special?

I think not, I just got this speak that's inside of me.

Me?

I'm just the customer.

The one who asked for the regular.

What is the point if the regular is below level, mediocrity the new sense of self and the base of my service and-

-sigh-

I just wanted the minimum, enough to be on my way but we've run out of lithium.

The battery is dying, the work ethic riding the wave of the generational influences and I'm tired of crying so...

So take what you want, give less than. I'll stunt. Just show up for you, no more special than two of the fucks you can't give for anyone else in your life.

Generational gap.

Ha.

Fuckers are all the same, they don't give a damn.

It's just what, that's the thing, fucking all just a sham.