The Pen and The Wind

I see the fools with bells on their feet, 
Flashing lights on their pants and hands,
With a mind like a stone and soul of a spade, 
Dead as the souls they sell for their bands.

Getting grinded on in a club,
They think they’re God’s gift to us,
But on patterns of thoughts in their minds,
They’re in need of a metaphysical truss.

They’re vermin to Mind and Soul, 
Veritable worms in Spirit’s shit,
Send them off to their own island,
Because I can’t take any more of it. 

Let them dance their way into a shallow grave,
Their sands of effort barely covering their heels,
Let the shallow be exposed to the elements,
And have their bones crushed under time’s wheel.