 This is a cause for celebration here in the belly of the swarm.
The situation demands that we raise our glasses
In honour of the spokesman we’ve fixated to the floor.
Give us your headline hymns and your saddest verse.
You’re not partnered with the half-hearted anymore.
Out legs are spread wide open,
Our weary heads are splitting at the seams
And we all know you’re proficient in the idioms of grief.
We are capable of the kind of love about which only the petrified can speak.
Concede him the microphone let him sing
The triumph of the frauds to all his loyal sycofanatics.
We all cater to the fire, once the walls come rushing down for shame.
I can say it better than you felt it. And I can be it bigger than you needed it.
I haven’t lived a day of my life apart from the one that everyone’s read about.
I’ll spark de-evolution.
I was specially bred for the cover page of your magazines.
I’ve been fatted up for the guillotines.
Sweet talker, you’re godamn right I’m a blessed lamb.
I can show you all how to have a good time.
I know why you came here, but neither of us will get what you want out of me.
This room has one too many laureates so I’m keeping my peace.
Every candidate ends his life with a cliché,
And the paths of glory lead to nowhere but the grave.
I’ve been spoiled rotten. Every thought I’ve authorised had curdled.
Not everything is poetry but I can’t convince you of that, I’ve been drawn and quartered.
I’ve been twice picked over. And it’s sickening what you’ve come here today to celebrate.
Fuck yeah we’re gonna party tonight.
I am capable of the kind of love about which only the intoxicated
And the California bound can weep.
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