The eternal cry of a Punk and his Punk town staring at their spit in the wind.

The eternal cry of a Punk and his Punk town staring at their spit in the wind.

So a Punk in chief can cry like a baby seal and complain that the useless poor bastards and suckers who he goes after may have the temerity or bad taste to return the favor.

Joyous also the many many merry meerkats of Punktown whimpering like poor little cursed drowned rats whose rancid cheese has not enough hidden shots of maniacal delusion.

The sky is falling.  The sky is falling.  Punks, debasers, nullifiers, voiders, haters and cheap shot artists …… called out on their happy little games, “Ahh, poor baby”. Pity, pity, pity those without their raucous blood and guts, those without their phony honor as they cling the delusions of having same.  The self awareness of gold fish is a mighty step up.

The eternal cry of a Punk and his Punk town staring at their spit in the wind.

Heroes all.

Punks in sheep’s clothing.

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