|
Francis didn't give a fuck about the rollbacks, the overproduction, reduced demand |
|
He never gave much thought to disputed contracts, in his short life, he'd only ever known |
|
Panic, fear, pain, darkness, pandemonium |
|
In the hell that was his home |
|
Fourth quarter earning expectations expedited his demise |
|
The panic grew as the humans stalked among them |
|
When the screaming began, Francis shut his eyes and felt the hand |
|
Of inhumanity brush over him |
|
But his would-be killer's back turned for a moment |
|
A blinding ray of light spread across the floor |
|
In a crimson pool, he saw his own reflection |
|
As he bolted for the door |
|
Not just some fractured fairy tale |
|
Although I wish that that were true |
|
This is a fable far too real |
|
Yet we somehow still cling to |
|
The storylines that bridge the chasm |
|
Between cognition and belief |
|
Any old implausible denial |
|
That might offer some relief |
|
From the dissonance that Francis |
|
Left screaming in his wake |
|
As deep into the heart of the city's park land |
|
He made good his escape |
|
And where, for five months, he ran free |
|
And replayed his only fond memory |
|
Just a warm and distant dream of |
|
His mother's loving eyes upon him |
|
Francis made it farther than she did |
|
A quarter mile, just short of the city limits |
|
They finally captured him |
|
And there's a statue that the abattoir erected |
|
To remind us all of their contributions |
|
To me it marks Potemkin City limits |
|
This Francis cast in bronze |
|
Not just a fractured fairy tale |
|
Although I wish that that were true |
|
This is a fable far too real |
|
Yet we somehow still cling to |
