What a concept, freedom is.
Freedom from a steady trickle of piss,
That my life is, or was, or is going to be.

In light or spite of a lack of freedom,
I've turned to anarchy as a fertile medium,
For expression, or lack thereof.

But now I've developed a heady obsession,
In part due to my malignant profession:
It's a penchant for, cocaine fuelled sessions!

What a drug, cocaine can be,
But the day after makes me need to feel clean,
So I'll kick it I suppose.

My friends, the government is corrupt,
To cope I snort and smoke so many drugs,
And hide from the blue lights and sirens.

I'm trapped in this fucking broken machine.
And all I have is shit poetry to speak.