"And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?"

-- The Second Coming by William Butler Yeats, 1916.

Open your eyes
Lock down disease
Is creeping over me

Ignoring the past
we're doom to repeat
don't turn on your TV

Looking for news
but not from a screen
The nausea envelops me

The bubbleheads
repeating their swill
don't know how to resist

And where is our reason
To cope with this season?
Eternal recurrence
Can't we stop this vision?

Seeing the polls
I find them all wrong
The answers I don't know

But what do I see
A great shopping spree
Unfolding before me

They say it's all over
It's all been decided
Seattle's come to pass

But what will you find
The end of the line
Except for broken lives

And where is our reason
To cope with this season?
Eternal recurrence
Can't we stop this vision?

But nobody's home or
Minding the store
Life slipped through the back door

Gouging my eyes
With crude broken glass
I can't escape the past

It never existed
I did not know
The channels are one voice

Increasing the horror
and calling for war
despite what they all know