By Candy Cain
all signs point to end times,
pocket change is worthless, get your bullets, bring your chains.
I’m talkin’ four horse riders kickin’ dust on the horizon, man
get yer gauze,
find yer fam,
get out yer survival plans,
learn the intricacies of developing your tribal clans,
once the skies entirely fell you might as well be silent lambs.
signs were there and clear as day:
swarms, and ‘course the air is plagued,
what more is there, dare i say?
masses turning on corrupted masters of the puppets, plus
everything’s on fire it’s like the planets had enough of us
travel plans have busted up, a massive L for wonderlust. might have to grab a blunderbuss and teach myself to toughen up
against the loyal boys in blue who’re lately going trigger happy
they’re not gonna stop until they make you simp for daddy
who’s been stringent, strict, demanding, and incompetent since officed in
like sycophantic kiddies in big boy pants will solve our coughing fits?
please..... if the mask fits wear it
if it keeps out the casket then we’ll have to grit and bare it
this year i couldn’t hecking breathe
my neck between cement and knees
no empathy when begging screaming “get off me” so breathlessly
there’s something up among us, either the architects been venting
or the whole foundations crumbling and this is coming up on ending.