The missing pages from someone else's book
Papered over the cracks in front of their backs
None of you were told to look
You took a dive on my blindside, playing for time
Where could I hide in my downtime?
I'm sat five thousand miles away
The fat cat vies to actify her evil eye
Alikened to vile, confined to the backslide
Parasites lost, do we stimulate to adulate?
Do we imitate as to accumulate?
Or lie here in wait till the scapegoat escapes?