and I'll say it's
"our time".
I'll have a whole theory on that.
I could fake it til I make it
til I believe in it
til it dovetails with the revolutionary fervor
where doubts are swept away, cringe isn't a thing
the only thing that matters is winning the fight
to fight monsters and become the corny as fuck monster
for taking it so seriously that i did what it took to win
to become that monstrously corny
oh god, it makes me cringe
but then the rage comes back
the cringe becomes a clench
my strong but stubby-fingered semi-dexterous pseudo-virtuosic hand
becomes a fist, not much good for smashing anything
but i'll take a job digging ditches for the revolution
they can throw in bodies of the monsters
we want the movement to kill
no more argument
no hoping for Someone Else to perform an assassination
like Johnny Smith
no more of that waiting
no more taking solace in Mr. Burns dying at the age of 105, we only have to wait twenty two more years... no, no more of that.
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