We were born afraid,
Nourished by insects blood,
Birthed from gilded loins
Scars are collectibles,
Part of growing up and old.
A masquerade, a macabre parade.
Martyrs died sanctified but insane
We salute those who fell before us,
While we traverse from
Pigeon holes to panic rooms
Deck the nondescript mundane
With Bohemian crystal chandeliers
That could have fed a starving nation.