Orange Tweeting Twat

A walking slab of brain damage beneath a bad toupe

and a soul of orange oozing pus is hereby on this day

Inflicted and installed as our alleged president

And I guess it makes sense if you’re a lobotomy patient

Nothing rhymes with orange

and I never should have had to write this song

Ain’t enough pages and piano keys to play the way it’s wrong

He might be some people’s president, to for most of he’s not

In any office he’s still just an orange tweeting twat

He got grown-ass men in white cone hats, and hoods made out of sheets

He’s gonna make ’em great again sometime between those tweets

We know he likes the Russians, least he hopes they will not snitch

Likes his showers gold that’s why he’s Putin’s little bitch

He’s gonna do some damage, it’s gonna be a drag

He cannot grab my snatch but he can bite my bloody rag

Information is Your Friend

One plus one is two, you’d think on that we could agree

And that the sky is blue and it wouldn’t start World War Three

That the findings of a study, double-blind and peer-reviewed

Would converge disparate perceptions and not be misconstrued

Information is your friend

Facts are not your enemy 

Someone smart said a long time ago

The truth will set you free

And it sucks I even have to say it,

That I have to sing and play it

We all enjoy results of scientific inquiry

Objective truth is a thing

Good journalist helps to make us aware

Regardless of what we want to see there

It doesn’t care about your paradigm or concept of what’s balanced and fair

I’d Love to be Wrong

I can see the sunset burning at the end of the world, from the end of the continent

The final frame of this ill-fated experiment

I can hear the future screaming from a five-alarm fire

An operatic death of dreaming from a new nightmare choir

I’d love to be wrong, wrong, for future studies to show

I’d just been crazy and no harm had been done

But it’s already here, and we already know

Were it a cruel joke or just a bad dream we could laugh, wake up, and move on

You could ridicule me in song

And I’d laugh right along, that’s how much I’d love to be wrong

I see four guys on horses, the sky growing dark

I can hear the rattle of chains

They ain’t coming to help us, their hostages already slain

The impending betrayal come as a surprise,

We’ve already seen casualties from false lullabies