Infectious (Fuss #1023)

An infectious drought is on the cards
Did you think you wouldn’t get the chance?
What you see laid out —
Time to travel to your death
(And I still don’t know who you are)

The gravy train was robbed last night
No one had a word to say
By the smell on my breath this morning
I could tell the crowd had me involved
I still don’t know what the fuss was for

Where’s the energy gone?
Sucked out and flustered . . .
Such willing disappearance
I don’t know what to say
But I’m angry and I’m bored

I shun the productions of their mediocrity
Shiny monsters polished and ordinary
A loathsome production line of garbage
Whose very odourlessness
Stinks to high heaven . . .

The first stage of doing
Is elongating . . .
Your squashy thoughts turn back in
So eke them bloody out
Or else they’re useless points on a spectrum

What this new age finds about growth
How to raise the tempest within
Before it’s too late, use the rake
And sprinkle the harvest before it happens
Who knows who we will ever be?