we all choose our plan
we set our own stage
but when it really boils down
we're all stuck in a cage.
plastered with the frowned
of the latter, looking drowned
oh boy, it's such a drag
to be labeled as the f*g.
in our copied dark age of credit
we social norms surely edit
the character root in brine
the data that may define.
Â
living as a number
we're told to be no blunder
how frankly really kind
to gift us their own find.
with no mind to keep withhold
just another digit:
our time that's growing old
inside the status quo.