People get wise, this October surprise
is happening before our eyes.
Nothing you see is certain.
It’s a science fiction curtain.
It’s reality built out of schemes and lies.
Atlas, Barr the door, knock the speaker to the floor.
Call Proud boys on the phone. I’ll be in the vault, alone.
Do not dare open the door, unless you’ve snuck in a whore.
When I come out, the New Age will be Stone.
The cockroaches have dirt on him.
He’s just part of their scam.
He’s not of this earth, you see.
He is an insect man.
More powerful than Ant Man,
more popular than Beatles,
he drives the Covid Killer Train.
He’s king of dirty needles.
Another daft from t.v. land
to shout death’s throaty call.
Soon there will be enough corpses
to finish up the wall.
They’re all in plastic cases,
piled up somewhere in the west.
They say that Atlas lives in one.
The food in there’s the best.