The Stick

Anxious mofo, my twin, my friend
Election time again, I wish that I was dead
Some conversation if you're well-read
To calm the storm of shit that's raging in my head

While languishing in basements, ten million corpses lashed to beds
Atrophied to archetypes by all the able artists overhead

Mixed light of evening, sky of the sea
You take the old north road 'cause that's where you feel free
Your hidden back roads, your hidden dreams
A hidden cigarette that actually helps you breathe

Play an ancient mix tape, attempt a break from your routine
But dark on the horizon, form that's never fully come to being

Still need a reason for your unease
You think the government, it wants you on your knees
But I'll tell you something and here it is
They want you driving to the supermarket, buying milk and cheese

And generating taxes to fuel their corn subsidies
You're either nibbling at the carrot or you get beat with the fasces