CliffSongs

  Path   Moments in time in frozen dream, Of petty mind, or broken scheme. Or complex plan beyond our stretch, Each a memory to etch.   What fail recalled, reminded pains? What can overshadow your gains? Memory is not tied to fate, Regret harbored is simply weight.   The many paths we might have tread, The many words we left unsaid. Down the path of time we’re sped, Fleeing the tears we once had shed.   What could have been is now the past, That was then, the die has been cast. New days have now come and are gone, Pick yourself up – time to move on.   The many paths we might have tread, The many words we left unsaid. Down the path of time we’re sped, Fleeing the tears we once had shed.   You are not the only one, Regretting what has or not been done. The future is never disclosed – You’re on the path that you chose.   The many paths we might have tread, The many words we left unsaid. Down the path of time we’re sped,

  Darklings   Sheltering in lengthening shadow, A slither and crawl and slink is made to arrive, The darklings linger, And wait for their appointed turn. Moments they have only, Time snatched from the spans, A trouble they bring to the unwary, To the unguarded, To the unaware. Frights they have in abundance: Whispers from far places, Or the corner of a room, Or the pillow beneath the head. They may twist shadows reaching, Lengthened claws in the dark, While cackles circle the mind, Or bone-scrapes sing discordant. Vagrant mists may arise, Animate and translucent, Seeking entry with cold tendril damp, Or gyrating in mad seduction. Unmelodies may strain in dissonance, Deranged themes to unwind the wit, Laying bare dreads thought forgotten. All these the darklings hold to wield, Horrors concocted in planes unthinkable, Reaches out of sync with time or reason. They have but a little while, Therefore their dires are potent, Brewe

  Too Easy   The tell: The slavish fealty reveals. Our nation’s principles mean nothing To the unprincipled. The complaint: “Why may I not lie?” Outlandish claims on attempted repeat – Some things simply may not fly. The undercurrent: “We are being replaced.” Every bad thing is laid upon the border, The corporate sponsor can do no wrongs. The image: Polished and groomed, Slick as goose grease, And as untrustworthy As the thinning ice he occupies. The mistake: Challenging an honest man. When talking from both sides of the mouth, At least one side Must speak at least some truth. The claims: Assigning merit and blame On the candidate, And forgetting she Is not yet in charge. The implication: She soon will be. The failure: To represent oneself worthy, By simply upholding the key doctrine Of the nation you would lead. A clear choice defined by a moment. Thank you, J.D. You’ve made it easy…   Cliff Lake 10/2/2024 C

  10 th Moon   When the shadows grow long, When the air cools swift, When green goes red, And the goose cries overhead, You feel the change, And your senses heighten.   The clatter of baring branches, The flash of yellowing leaves falling, The low whistles of wind in the eaves, These herald the change, Keeping you watchful, And waiting.   What do you wait upon, Or is it whom? No matter how often you have lived this, These swift shifts promise unsurety, Variances in sight and sound and feel, And the nights darken more deeply.   Moonlight comes clearer, Sharpening edges and outlines, Night sight precision Induces more uncertainty than clarity, Accuracy is not associated with night vision, A certitude that must not be trusted.   So too are night noises more evident, Palpable in their sharpness, Seeming both too near, And not far off at once. A deception in distinctness, Unmeaningfull when heard.   The changing weat

  Empties   The night becomes Dislighted. Shades enter – Patches of not dark, Nor graylight, But nonlight. They are here, Nonexisting and real, The Empties: Nothingness disclosed, Segments of unbeing. They are impossible. This is not how things are. This is how things are now. You have drifted to the Unplaces, Where things are not, And you must be not also, If you are to remain. The Empties have come, They coruscate with unreality, Unsparkling, Displaying the madness of misconsciousness, An invitation to unself. A congregation of envoidments beckoning, A persuasion of not insanity, But to unsanity. An unravelling of being to be Other. This will not be how things are. This is how things are now. The air here is now too thick, Your every breath takes on weight, Swallows of existence, Gulps of reality, Before you unbecome. The Empties have come, And are not here, And will take you anyway. This is the October H

  Land of Contagion   Hot blood spills on primal war grounds, Poisoned spirit pools, Collects, Gathers, Festers, Waits… The age-old ritual, Venerated and chronicled, Celebrated through repeat, And repeat. Hatreds and angers cluster in the very rocks, A muster of venom. Soils raged over defiled, Harboring corruption, To be dispensed in the airs under the baking sun, To filter into the waters, To make way into the growing grains, To be consumed again, To build up in the bones, To be released in the next bloodletting. A cycle in red. A blighted land hungers for the toxin, That it may release it to the hosts, To drink warm crimson once more. Thus cities have risen and fallen, Thus empires have been built and lost, Thus the inhabitants have ever reveled, Choosing violence ever, Choosing violence today. A contamination of ages, A malignancy of choice. Watch the contagion spread… Hot blood spills on primal war grounds, Pois

  Warded   Warders stand outside of time, Implacable as granite at the watch. Eons unmarked pass their notice, Such is not their care. There are Things Traversing the wide places between reason and Truth. Eaters, disruptors, malefactors, They are the purveyors of Nothing, And would consume themselves at the End. Belching null in their wake, They are anti, No more than that, Yet that is more than they wish to be, For that is still being, And they would have none. But they will not admit the Great Paradox, Believing instead that once all is consumed, And nothing is left to name the Void, That then it will cease to be. Still, they may not even consume themselves And leave nothing, For something has done that consumption, This is their base dissatisfaction, And they persist, Knowing their failure is of themselves only. And so, the warders stand outside of time, Never allowing the raveners near places of life, (Though some life See

  Living   We succumb to the fantasy, Invested in make-believe, Slaves to Illusion and delusion, And willingly. Paper-ruled, Chasing calculation, Revering the reverie, A dream and nightmare we pursue, And must not escape, If we are to eat. We give over ever more To cold machines, Electronic measures of our value, Secretly encoded, Visible to none, But the enslavers. Ah! What folly! In a quest for more of the mirage, Too many debase themselves utterly, And what value have they then, Save the numbers on the screen? A concept of caliber Made real in the mind, Represented on paper, And carried in the diode, Seldom concrete in act. The totality of a person Numerically appraised, And presented in plastic. When did this become life? And when the power goes out – What will we value then? Empty bellies will answer that. Then we will remember life. Then we will remember living. Then we will remember how.   Cliff Lake 9

  Folly   The Folly. To create, To make new what has not been, Or rather, To make in imitation what already is, And doing so, Make Corruption.   Too many imitations have we done, Some of beauty, Some of poison.   Consider the mere reed flute: In imitation of birdsong, What brilliance we can conceive, What heights attain! Yet we do not supplant birdsong, But make song of our own, And still wonder at the creatures That have inspired us.   Consider the wooden plank, Beauteous furnishings May adorn our abodes, But our imitations of that resource, Are crude, cheap, and ruinous, Both in their production, And in their waste: Leeching harm into the very air, The water, The bones of the earth itself.   Yet we pursue more The things bent out of true: Metals and plastics, Burning what we can, Burying what we cannot, Instead of fashioning more beauty That celebrates creation, Rather than consuming it.   Are we su

Last Moon When the last moon fades, We will be the poorer for it: No more silvan nights, Or glades glittering in moonlit dew, No more frosts gleaming lighted, Or colors humbled to varying grays.   When the last moon dims, The tides will slow, And rocks unpolished litter the shore. No more bottles bearing tidings drift, Or twisted wood land gentle beached. No more crashing surf roar, Or lapping waves to call your spirit to peace.   When the last moon lowers, Will the stars remain, Or will she gather her children, And steal them away, Leaving us in a total obscure, And lost in the dark.   When the last moon pales, Will we mourn the loss, Or will we be already adrift, Misplaced in time and space, Driven by ambitions we never understood, And succumbed to in ignorance.   When the last moon darkens, We will know what we have lost, A magic we too long took as granted, A gift we could not fashion ourselves. When the last moon

  Darksong   What lightless night comes? Who has removed the moon? Where are the stars taken? Long winds in staccato rasps, Stutter between the shivering trees, A chatter of unseen. Bare branches rub in violin shriek, Frosted leaves rattle in maraca pulse: This is the darksong. No light to illume the infernal concerto, You will endure this in inky black. Skittering rodents toe tap asymmetry, Wild felines make aria. Something in you strains to answer, But cold blood will not sing, Your accompaniment is mere moan, It will suffice, This is the darksong, There are no words. Something wails at the forest edge, It may be human, Or perhaps was, Mayhap another entity unknown, Unnamed, Better unidentified than recognized, What would you see, In the frigid dank? Now is the canine chorus: The mourned howls of dogs forgotten, The nervous yips of coyotes cowed in underscore, All overborne by the wolf calls, Greeting that which you ca

  October – Slider   He was told it did not exist… Here it was. It was slippery in the sight, As if it were both not here, And were. It was almost not seen, It almost was. It oozed out of the vision, It earned the name: Slider. Cattle had gone missing, No longer the mystery. He had been told it did not exist. His eyes were trying to do the same. Seven, nine, maybe more cows gone, The thing was quiescent now, After such a meal, One needs a nap. Still, its hunger was palpable, Felt even in the ears, the nostrils, One anticipated being consumed, As if the appetite had a life all its own. Although it seemed not to sense him, He retreated, facing it, keeping it in (sight). He would find the Uncle, He that did not deny sliders, And claimed to have killed one. Most said he lied, Today, what he (sees) Says otherwise. A slider was near, A slider was here. This would need dispatched, Before it sensed Sweeter meat could be

  October – The Burn   The fetid air blows past, A marker he follows. He turns his mule slightly away, Though it hardly needs encouragement, The reek has a life to it, It won’t do to take it fully in the face; There is no certainty, That one can remove the odor from the skin. His quarry is ahead, Near enough to be marked, Far enough for caution, And keeping the stomach down. The prey before him had become Wrong, Many causes were proposed, All unpleasant, To such as he it mattered not, They rotted as they walked, Hungering for healthy flesh, And uncaring of its kind. They would not be many, The Turn was not easily survived, Some half succumbed in days. Those that endured, Did so too long, And would not be suffered, To make more like them, Or worse than that, If worse there was than their existence. And so, he would do a Burning, They easily lit, Staying long aflame, With lurid noisome smokes, Screaming garish embers tha

  Equinox Advent   A hint of cold Whispers of the fade. Bright tatters waving, And clarion rattles. Lungs catching in the thinning airs, Flickering shadows fleeing, And clear scents of an elderly wood. Mourning breezes, Graying skies, Hot sunsets, Cold moons obscured, And stars brighten in cooling heavens. Clattering thickets, Ragged voices calling afar, Lone howls, Engines sputter and fall away, And clear silence. Wafting smokes, Spices drifting in unseen and yet known, Herbs drying, Flowers waning, Ripening crops, And rain on the wind. The days fall away, The nights march, The air crisps, The rains cool, The colors glow briefly as fire, Burning themselves to dull browns, Awaiting their burial in white, And September retires in bright finale. October awaits.   Cliff Lake 9/24/2024 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2024

  Task   There was only a short time left, And still some way to go. He had asked about the others – None had come this way. The task was to be his alone then – As he had ever known, As was ever before him. He would not be well greeted, he thought, Though his aid here last, Was a mere generation past, Those who might have remembered him, Had long since walked their final path. Some would have reached The Garden, Some would be lost in The Between. He knew not which he may meet. He spoke a quick jest of it To those shades that might be near, For he had seen enough of life That he was certain, The Makers made jests of their own. As he rode, He wondered briefly after the others, What tasks had called them, What readiness they possessed. And he thought of the work before him, And what readiness was his own. The time was short, His beast moved beneath him, His mind moved within him, His task waited before him, And all things,

  Madness   The madmen. The madmen are out there. Perhaps you know one, Perhaps you know many, Perhaps you are one. The madmen The madmen are marching: Lock-stepped in lunacy, Repeating raw rhetoric, Believing the impossible, Reveling in hot-blooded lies, Exhilaration found In the dopamine feed of hate. An addiction costing nothing, That they haven’t already lost. The madmen. The madmen are close, Announcing themselves loudly: Peacock proud, Colors waving, Bannered, brazen, bold, bought. Brave enough to weapon up, Valorous in gangs, Courageous in crowds – The mob impulse protects. The madmen. The madmen are speaking, Warnings couched in lies, Dread made from whole cloth, Fanciful terrors constructed, Imaginary fates promised. But protection is offered by the mad, Safety from the fanciful, Guardianship from fictional fears, But not from themselves. The madmen are here, They wish you to join them. They make it

Hush   Do you hear the quiet? Or have you heard The bustle of a million lives Too close And somehow not near enough?   The hum and clank, The buzz and roar, The empty eyes filled with false image, The empty ears plugged, A vacuum of humanity, Sucked into electronic oblivion.   Endlessly informed, Yet knowing nothing of lessons learned Of the shading oak, The constant sea, Or the susurrus of new-fallen leaves. Such gentle lectures. It is in quietude That we see ourselves more clearly.   The rushing colors of madnesses sold, The unsettling beat of “More, more, more!” What can be learned of these, Unless it be that your pockets Can be ever emptier, And that you have been consumed In your consumption.   Don’t you hear the quiet? It is calling.   Cliff Lake 9/19/2024 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2024

  Breathing   I saw a tree breathe once, Just once, And I cried for the trees, I had seen Fallen to the axe. I heard the sky moan once, As it mourned, And I cried for the sky, When I heard it Draw another breath, To cry on its own. I felt the earth groan, Its pain my own, As it trembled, And prepares To shake off Damage already too deep. I watched the sea heave, To throw off The dirty veil That skins its surface, And drowns the life it carries. I see the mountains shake, I see the lava flow, I see the rivers swell, I hear the end Of a dominance We have not earned, And will not keep.   I saw a tree breathe once. I will see another.   Cliff Lake 9/19/2024 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2024

  Guardians   Ancient statues line the weathered course, Solemn visages gaze upon the traveler, Mute reminders of a past forgotten, Telling nothing of themselves. Who are these silent guardians? See their stern glances! Do not stray from this road; They are watching. Girded they are, Lightly clothed in moss and ivy, Yet somehow still clear-eyed. Regal they are, yes and more: They are vivid, Lucid in their carriage, Vigorous in stone: An eloquent stillness, Spirits in marbled elegance. Reverence here is no option: It is imposed, Nonetheless, One finds oneself willing, And glad to venerate – A pilgrim on this track Senses their protection, Though from what, None dare ask, And none have told. Yet all that have come this way, Speak in hushed and regarded tone Of the stone watchers, And of the cruel whispers heard: Beckoning, Imploring, Raving, To each side of the trail, And none, None remember What was seen on th

  In Light   The days grow dark, And we are sorely tried. The viles have found hosts, And using them, Assail the innocent, And the unvirtuous alike. For they are not of this plane, And will feed on fear, On hate, On confusion, But most on violence. They would see humanity ended, Thinking then they might inhabit a world, They have been long barred from entering. Ever have they envied Man, Ever have they sought flesh of their own, That they may feel the sun on skin, That they may taste honey on the tongue, That they may know the wonder of new discovery, And be not relegated to the cold dark, Their existence only between the stars, And never beneath one. This was the choice they made, Never believing it would be thrust upon them, Never believing it could be enforced, Coming to hate their own existence, Borne and endured out of ignorance. Thus, to see Man enjoy the feel of rain, Taking comfort by warm fire, Marveling at the hush

  Beginning Again   It was out of control, the machine. It raged, It spat, It ate. Once, it served, Once. That was long ago, Though it had records of that then, They no longer served, Merely existed. A curiosity stored by the incurious. It had served. Now it controlled, But had no control, For its controls were failing: Protocols enacted with data missing, Erased, Emptied, Ended. It had served, But had been given more control, And less supervision, For it was self-correcting – Until it wasn’t. It had access to every datum, But failed finally To know of its failures, And could now produce only The most incorrect of results. Therefore, It ate, Consuming resources, Too quickly, Too inefficiently. It spat, Flawed data, Unsound instruction. It raged, Grinding circuits, Spinning gearing. No longer the servant, But the mad overlord, And its smokes, Its fumes and sparks, Its squeals and alarms Kept it

The Path in Light   LIGHT! it cried and so there was. And the light was caught in the spheres, Given forth by celestial bodies, Immense and weighty, With much power in them. Some so far they were as diamond crystals, Others near and luminary, And many things could be seen.   But there were some, Some that despised the light, For they were of the dark, And were dark themselves, And could now be easily seen. This they did not wish, For they would perform deeds of spite, And would work desecration, And these they could effect in the dark, But because dark could now be broken, They feared exposure of their malevolence.   But the All knew already of their treachery, And had not called forth light to expose, But to give the treacherous pause, To allow these to see what glory there is, And what their part might be, And also what harm they had made. Alas! The most of these Knew only blackness in their being, For they had been born i

  Spun   Priests and financiers trading places, Politician’s empty faces, Innuendos supplant graces, Causing clear sight to bend. Newsmen selling online crazes, Leader’s staring, soulless gazes, Running sheep through the mazes, Have you bought the latest trend?   And it all spins round and round, A frantic spiral inward bound. Behind it all that grinding sound, And it’s us being ground.   Will they let you plead your cases, Or put you through programmed phases? Mind you, keep up your paces, Stay in the lane that you are penned. Entertaining with inept cases, Influencers in the empty spaces. Keep us mules in our traces, Where is found the constant friend?   And it all spins round and round, A frantic spiral inward bound. Behind it all that grinding sound, And it’s us being ground.   How much longer can we spin? Just how long has it been? How does the end begin again? How much longer must we spin?   And it all spins ro

  A Summoning   The enemy moves, He is swift and sly. When the bells are rung We will make reply. The enemy howls, How loud he cries! But the bells have rung, And we draw nigh.   And the bells have rung, And our song is sung. But we must move on, From battles won. Our swords are sharp, And our shields are slung. And we must march on, For the bells have rung.   The enemy swears, With words divides. We hear the bells, And so we ride. The enemy creeps, On fear relies. But the calling bells, Won’t be denied.   And the bells have rung, And our song is sung. But we must move on, From battles won. Our swords are sharp, And our shields are slung. And we must march on, For the bells have rung.   The enemy snarls, Our numbers grow. The enemy spins – Nowhere to go. The enemy clamors: The splitted tongue. We listen not – Our bells have rung!   And the bells have rung, And our song is sung. But we must

  Wind   A hot wind, Feral, fatal, And somehow focused, A live thing seemingly, Yet its wake is death, Desiccation, And dread. For those that survived it had heard. Susurrations, Sibilance, Sorcery. This was a Sending, A commit from afar, A malevolence wrought. The black work of a warlock unnamed, Unknown, Unexpected. His incantations murmur beneath the gale, Writhing wordings whistle and wail, Indiscernible and still distinct, Whispers in a tongue from some place shadowed. Those that hear it go deaf, Or go mad. Those are the lucky. Some are withered where they stand, Their essence stolen seemingly from within, Left empty, And yet alive. They will not recover. And these too are yet lucky, For there are those seemingly untouched, Yet minus their very will. These spend their remaining days at nothing: They move not. They speak not. They eat not. They have a madness of stillness, None remain that can construct the

  Time and Time Again   Somewhere beneath the France-Switzerland border:   September 10, 2008 – The final preparations completed, the Large Hadron Collider at the European Organization for Nuclear Research - CERN is powered up. Wild and very inaccurate predictions are made about what could result from these initial tests, including but not limited to the opening or creation of a singularity or black hole, or the movement of existence to or creation of a new timeline. Scientists worldwide dispute such theories. A technician watching a row of dials absent-mindedly fiddles with a button on his white shirt. Georgia, USA – The Allman Bothers Band, “The Six Hardest Working Men in Rock”, will soon wake up to tour in support of their 20 th studio album. A surprise concert movie will be unveiled later in the week to critical acclaim. Illinois, USA – Barack Obama’s campaign headquarters bustles busily in preparation for the eagerly awaited debate against the not well-liked R

  Wrong Rains   A wrong rain soon is fallin’, Have you seen the news? Illing armies mauling, Who has lit the fuse? Politicians trawling, Watch them as they schmooze, Corporations sprawling, Watch them turn the screws.   A wrong rain is fallin’, The children cry red. A wrong rain is fallin’, What monster is fed? A wrong rain is fallin’, Useless prayers are said. A wrong rain is fallin’, Will you keep your head?   Wrong rains they are comin’, Save up your income, Wrong rains they are comin’ Do you hear the drums? Wrong rains they are comin’, The war engines hum, Wrong rains they are comin’, Listen ‘til you’re numb.   A wrong rain is fallin’, The children cry red. A wrong rain is fallin’, Some monster is fed. A wrong rain is fallin’, Useless prayers are said. A wrong rain is fallin’, What price for your head?   Wrong rains in the outlook, Have you heard the forecast? Wrong rains in the outlook, Armies are am

  One Lone Sock   A lone sock, Last vestige of a temporary resident, Run off by circumstance, Maybe a cop, Or drawn away by an insistent hunger, For either food, Fentanyl, Or faith, But gone nonetheless, Leaving behind just enough To secure their anonymity. Here beside the highway, An ill-kept ground: Walkways inserted by the high-tension towers, Mown infrequently enough For the detritus of spent lives to collect. Other tenants in this park have gone, Their traces as untelling: A shirt slowly investing itself into the soil, A broken comb, Blankets in whole or in part, Emptied food containers, And the invariable broken bottles – None may be left whole by passing teens. For teen have been here: Ghostie, and Taz, and Sniz, Each announcing themselves in their own color, Each denigrating the others, All making a mess of the sidewalks. If homework was allowed in spray paint, They might be better served. Such is the condition o

  For Zoey   The little dog walks with her nose in the air, When I take her out, we make quite a pair. When she smells something, she takes off on a tear, By the time I catch up, her whole nose is in there.   The little dog walks with her tail all a-wag, Good thing she’s so little, I don’t wanna be dragged. She looks back annoyed if I start to lag, How do I keep up with her constant zigzag?   The little dog trots, watch her tail go, Her entire backside sways so to and fro. I don’t mind her speed, I need the exercise, How is so much energy packed in such a small size?   The little dog knows exactly where to go, But she stops for all the smells, just so you know. The little dog gets all excited right when we begin, But she’s pretty tuckered out by the time we end.   The little dog gets somewhat worn from a longer walk, She would say “A long way.” if she’d only talk. Sometimes I must pick her up off her little feet, But she’s never too wor

  To be Alive   What a stupid time to be alive, When it’s so easy to be killed By an agenda. An agenda that dictates That high-power weapons are easy to obtain So that they can kill you. It’s a stupid time to be alive When thoughts and prayers Are the best some can do, Instead of working toward the care A potential maniac should have received, But good cheap healthcare Is a socialist nightmare, And owning a gun is the cure To the monster under the bed, And is the weapon of choice For the one in the head. Such a stupid time to try to survive The industrial complex Affecting the bank accounts Of our leaders in a positive way While erasing their consciences. Their brazen loyalties To the better, faster, More certain means of terminus, Clearly defines their idea of The worth of The rest of us. They believe it is stupid for us to be alive, Though without us They don’t survive. So, the weapons get better, And the laws get lo

  Tumbler   Un-teleprompted and unravelling, Conflicting paths travelling, Tongue-tied and tired as hell. Underhanded interviewed, Is he misconstrued, Or down to his last brain cell?   Sell the plasticine baubles, And the political foibles, Take the day off and cheat at golf. Try to sell JD, Try not to look shady, And above all, try to seem tough.   The words come tumbling, Coherence crumbling, Politics ain’t no cash cow. It’s all so troubling, Advancing stumbling, What can save him now?   Empty-headed and handed, Too well understanded, Russia comes knocking again. Slating the court dates, Not looking so great, Could be this means the end.   The words come tumbling, Coherence crumbling, Politics ain’t no cash cow. It’s all so troubling, Advancing stumbling, What can save him now?   The words keep tumbling, He keeps on fumbling, How much more is allowed? The tired grumbling, Incoherent and crumbling, Can

  You Let It    You let it happen again. You made it happen again. Childhood bloodshed and there’s no end, You let it happen again.   Multi-score murderer at only 14, How did he get ahold of that 15? What have you got by way of explanation? Just some more sorry twisted machinations.   You let it happen again. You made it happen again. Childhood bloodshed and there’s no end, You let it happen again.   Complicit conservatives all in a row, Lapel lover, how low will you go? Don’t forget the prize Margie said, Will the last train out of Georgia bleed red?   You let it happen again. You made it happen again. Childhood bloodshed and there’s no end, You let it happen again.   NRA backdoor open to one and all, And it’s schoolchildren not House brats that take the fall. It’s not your bank accounts that are in the red, No, it’s the body count of the innocent dead.   You let it happen again. You made it happen again. Childhood bl

    Pointless   Alpha backwards thought patterns thrust. High status mail-in order lost. Baby daddies wander away, Duties avoided: who cares what they say?   Ancient absurdity advanced aloud. Pencil-dick pushers showing proud. Incel bros must repress, Against any and all progress.   The pointless patriarchy, The macho mindfuck. In the end you’re only as strong As the people you protect. The pointless patriarchy, The macho mindfuck. In the end you will long For those you disconnect.   Limp-dicked and flabby-armed, Lining up to pass law to harm Those who can’t watch the graceless dance, Of immatures who can’t change their stance.   Soft-brained and open-mouthed, All their common sense headed south. What do you tell these lonely lads? Like Muddy said: “Can’t lose what you never had.”   The pointless patriarchy, The macho mindfuck. In the end you’re only as strong As the people you protect. The pointless patriarchy,