Cut my time in chronic slices
Cut my losses, cut my vices
Cut the chord and cut the scene
Who are we to intervene?
Who are we but wandering heathens
Lost unfound, unfounded credence
In a people yet to come
In avoidance cut to none
Shall we pray to winding serpents?
Wine held whining, wisely nervous
Cybernetic siren sings
Of a throne unfit for kings
Of an offer always taken
Off the track or left forsaken
Office held, more often heeding:
"Not just meaningless but fleeting"
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