Dear God,

The patient's best intentions

have sadly faltered.

Despite his newly installed, varnished brain,

and being force-fed gallons of viscous demented liquor,

he is determined to obtain the new drone spiders' trophy.

He dreams of becoming the scorpion who never sweats.

Quite frankly, I'm sickened to have this individual infiltrate

my headspace.

He talks of lascivious laughs haunting his every second

as the clock spits, clicks, and time speeds by in the

form of a neon snake.

Massive delusions?

Very probably.

{music begins}

I fear for my safety.

He is as weak as his fellow man.

I am now surrounded by hypocrites, liars, drunks,

clowns, fools, sycophants and the desperate.

I insist we barter with the moon to sell the patient's cohesive lyrical maps

in exchange for a vision of the future.

Stricken with grief, I have no choice but to turn to lethal toxins

Hardcore Punk Paste.

Allstars takin' over