Television; all hail grand pixelated god of fantasy, murder-scape, and bent perspective. Fuck a sore channel changed digit, I sit with a nasty network intravenous plan, with a stable diet of my cable pirate. Yo, the doctor is in, the doctor is on, born the bastard son of static radiance cloned to welcome in every home. Let a blue screen, bruised dream canopy victim of the cursed nursed Technicolor drunk support team. Ooh, I love all advertisements though accused by robot news casters who capture and pollute spoon-fed hazardous fog to joy luck catholic squad. Please take me, please calm me, please make me a zombie please I want to donate my brain to the monstrous Panasonic profit Now, twenty-first century plagued dispersed to wide-eyed glamour addict patients telecast patrons Blue be the propaganda banners, well, sure I'll be a Marine with a clean sword and blue uniform, it only takes a dollar and a dream. And I abide, great idiot box power-supply, fuzz vapor, blackout of New York. Hey honey, get the generator, I'm in a doom, doom generation, pacin', ancient electric secret never sleepin' to miss the AM oasis my name is a wired heart, sloppy obligation turn my stilt into my guilt and have a chatter-box blame-frame adjacent station Make reality scrambled and suck the life out of a hidden vandal and loving every minute of the gimmick, change the channel.
Plug it in, turn it on, prop me up against the couch lights out, I ain't ever gonna have to leave my house satellite dish, get up on my wish list, turn me to a tyrant let my clean spirit dissolve through the appliance.
Plug it in, turn it on, be my mother when she's gone. Great, wipe the spittle off my chinny-chin during the breaks. If I gotta go blind I'mma do it for the love of all television kind and that's fine, and that's fine...
Make me a star, I wanna touch gold, hold me suspended in a dream, meerly inches from the screen Deleted passions sacrificed to one electron monster Crucify my little future to the monitor. Damn it feels good: turn on, tune in zoom in to hug the bug up in your family function. "But the children seem to love it.." Yeah, smother me in wild discovery and herd the static flock to where I sleep by the glow of that magic box. Big speaker, stereo mastered, often kill the freak-seekers, eyes spiraling, tangled in the star-spangled wiring. I can turn from toxicated visuals and all the kings horses abort the loyalty to royalty, fuck the fortress. Riddle me with glee, hoist the end-all telepromt above my sleeping head I'll be dead by morning anyway. Color my values with mundane humor in thirty minute tickets to feel the magnetic seal. Picket censorship, I want commercials twenty four-seven, I wanna shop from my bed and set an example for all my overworked, underpaid brethren. I bond with a sick string of correspondent and lurking circuitry circus with allegiance pledged beyond the glass surface. Adamant students within the fine school of possessed graduate catalysts, channel zero addicts, immaculate. It goes: big screen, little screen, any screen'll do just let me hold the controller and I won't have to murder you.
Plug it in, turn it on, let my little eyes glaze, twenty screens lined up along the borders of the maze. I wanna see the five-day forecast fourteen days in advance so I can get my two weeks notice every time the sun dance.
Plug it in, turn it on, silent fix better than nothing, let a once divine soul feel the functions of the hypnotist, the viciousness, ridiculous, piquing a dummy's interest. Touch the power button meet your maker, ain't that something?
Plug it in, turn it on, say goodbye to Sunday afternoon, fix the antenna, sit back and let disaster bloom It's a beautiful sight, with a most ugly intention but I taste it everyday and bathe inside the consequences.
Plug it in, turn it on, never once have you talked back to me your majesty, I love you, I despise you. My everyday is sitcom, soaps, news, bad dramatization come along with me, my friend for the most glorious sensation..Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
