blue-baked and scattered

on the outside looking in

hung on strings called freedom

puppeteers of fond chagrin

nod of disapproval

digital delight

don't go near the water

or you might die of flight

earn the inner circle

it's a bubble made with soap

bleached white antiseptic

void of spectrum's hope

you won't find your pot of gold

we've got it in our bank

but you will sing our praises

as the empty hits your tank

feed us with your high esteem

you don't need your clothes

we will tell you who to blame

and how your west wind blows

so stop your introspection

let sleep consume your head

and we will show you what to think

while you die of regret.