Path not thought, media seems bought, the two must have fought. Spit out dirt, theologians might get hurt, wear it on yer shirt.
Talk is cheap, but the sounds are like peeps, gives some the creeps.
Incantations in the day, or in the night, the future is in site. Clear your bed, rest your head, don't you know about the dead. Their words are silent, but the pages speak, still sounds like a geek. Ill listen hard, never sink in, but maybe with help, Ill still win. Keep'em up, say yes with a yup, fill your cup, leave it till it erupts.