The Creature In The Feature Never Knows The Ending

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In hock to logic, pawned to picture, pan to the heathens just over the horizon.

Yep, and with designs on your solo cups. We’re all party to the simpletons’ soirée now.

Our back lot Group Think ticket punch of taking Stock and Shock B Reel to rent-seek a high-rise low-brow billionaire to bully the balcony.

Well, enjoy the picture show pastoral you forced all to purchased while pretending those House seats reserved will remain status quo. One never knows who will be labeled S.R.O.

So S.O.L. it’s you that dictates the director’s cut of this franchise. Well, O.K… maybe you and that FSB from sea to Caspian Sea, but we’ve turned an ample amber into a crass combine of democratic C.O.D. for “the” —but not me.

But that could go topsy-turvy pronto, as no revolt is bespoke, kemosabe.

Off and on the rack it will go. Until threadbare.

And this revolution, even before it begins, is already wearing thin.

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