To arms, to arms!
The time has come for Manifesto Destiny,
“The Uprising”,
evolution,
or acceptance of slavery.
This is where the Big Crunch begins.
We stroll into the new age,
shorn by the cold scissors of industry,
phlegmatic and nude,
no names left in our phone books,
soap boxes converted to gallows,
in perpetual violation of sinister court fees,
feasting on cannibal suburbia,
fearing contagious fire in the mail,
McDonalds logos on every child’s lunchbox,
Everything – everyone – a terrorist!
While media orangutans fingerbang America’s consciousness,
the military rapes astronomy
and petroleum rainbows slick the rivers of the world.
The savagery of civilization dooms us all!
The bureaucratic wall halts the rolling stone!
The Dow Jones beast rears 666 heads!
No more!
Hear me now, my friends!
It’s time to confront those trapezoid-backed, Blake-prophesied, hollow-cheeked, ulcerous, toad-fingered, Bible beatboxing self-denial artists who sired the Grand Mother Night,
those who pound podiums with their diseased genitals in hand, molesting the public with their promises of justice,
those who poison the minds of the brave with their walkabout zombie philosophies,
those who coordinate the explosions and droughts of money,
those who suckle the teats of the cold, black amniotic essence of modern machinery,
those who allow rotation but never revolution,
the Molochs of their bronze plated-consciousness,
their unwavering mechanical senses,
their soulless television eyes,
the Guardians of the Darkness.
There’s only one thing left to do…
Give ‘em the cold steel remedy.
Let’s paint the glass ceiling black for their funeral.
Remember, tear gas doesn’t spread so well in the rain.
Just try to wriggle off the fishhook, o slimy thou!
You’ll be sorry when the Whisper Men come to get you!
The harsh light of truth will shine down
like a sunbeam through a magnifying glass
and burn you to a cinder.
“Who will be left to change the channel?” they will cry out.
“Who left to supply the endless demand?”
And we will answer,
“None and nobody, that’s who!”
Please hear our cry, spirit of John Brown!
Please hear our cry, spirits of Nat Turner and Crazy Horse!
Please hear our cry, spirits of Daniel Shays and Huey Newton and the Weather Underground!
In thy hallowed names, we ask ourselves the ultimate question by which our deeds will be judged:
“Are we the saviors of the universe… or just the final ape evolution?”