Total Regression

Two consecutive numbers multiplied

yield my music at work

Two ambivalent stoners permafried

are now C-Store clerks

There’s something to this dichotomy

of sorts

Nothing deep really, just a dropkick to

the shorts

Two ellipsoids capable of

producing that sacred life

Two sex cells, from below to above,

the impetus for major strife

Put this to paper and

pound out the chords

It beats serving hot dogs

and swabbing the boards

Two stoners pick up axes

and meet their breaker

Two loners receive faxes

and meet their maker

Going on this long lacks

anymore ambition

So it goes, turn your backs,

it’s a simple rendition

They died and sold their souls

All because they had no honest goals

At the lake of fire sunbathing

without the sun

On Earth it was all okay, down here

ain’t so fun

Should’ve stopped smoking the grass

Should’ve made peace with the past

The chords and the riffs

ended sometime back

And they received their degree

of deserving flack

Two naïve souls consciously

sealed their fates

Two souls squandered and

not at the pearly gates

So ends this sordid tale

of decided depression

Just an ode to the human race,

the leaders of total regression