Wake up call, left hook to the jaw. Spitting teeth and double entendres. Marionette's cross has become my wildcard. I know not what I do. My armoire is overflowing with others' cloaks, but I will never be revealed. Wiretaps to promote security as the Kevlar unravels to embrace the shot in the back. I strike a Lennonesque descent to my concrete utopia at the puppeteer's command, but now I'm back at the start. Stalemate, old chap. A jejune discourse of two-bit riddles keeps us entertained, the moles have accomplished so much that we will never begin to recognize. Life these days reads like Pollock and shocks like Mapplethorpe. It is me against them, in a sick, codependent fashion. Magnetamerica. All rise for the respectful applause, for I am the face of your lust and the voice of your deity and my predecessor knows I've taken as many stones as He has. Nail me to your sticks and comb my coifs. The lingering odor of dry rot brings forth the moles to further my bidding, led to negate the dreams of man. Explanations projected as expulsions through the nostrils, free of such formalities as proper blessings. Hindsight, second guessing, these things are dangerous to a man such as myself. This is Oedipus at its most rock 'n' roll. Let's set these bonfires and celebrate like the mindless epicureans we so proudly are. My blood is thick with oil and I'm seeing stars. My hair turns as white as my past...but I will never be revealed. Cut these strings, I've served my time. I'm a real little boy. Disarm the liars and burn them alive. All hail the new world order.