Here in our gilded cage,
We turn on the news and are entertained.
We are an army of semi informed, chemically maimed.
Paper Tigers that, only the cusp, only the crown,
This isnât the only way down.
Either way itâs death by a thousand cuts,
But you would think weâd choose our blade.
But by the way we carry on like nothing's wrong,
One could argue pointedly, that maybe we deserve to be.
Here in our gilded cage,
We are infantilized continuously.
Our parents who sow the seed,
That wonât let it grow into a tree.
A spectral tiger is born,
With beautiful stripes and porcelain teeth,
And the ghost of the hunt underneath.
Either way itâs death by a thousand cuts,
But you would think weâd choose our blade.
But by the way we carry on like nothingâs wrong,
One could argue pointedly that maybe we deserve to be.
Either way itâs death by a thousand cuts,
But you would think weâd choose our blade.
But by the way we carry on like nothingâs wrong,
One could argue pointedly that maybe we deserve to be.