Syndrome Of a Crown

The Green Lung Grinders

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Spew your coronation
Into your throne of porcelain
We vomit money at your feet
But find no milk at your dried-up teat

We trip over ourselves
Competing for a handout
Showering you with offerings
Hands into which to sink your teeth

Your memory for detail is
Sharper than your sword in my spine

Your lust to penetrate all walls insatiable
The more you touch to turn to gold
The less each piece is valuable

The true sovereign minted
Metallic disembodied heads

All for aught

Of what damn use are you to me?
Everything in your life is free
You’re never held responsible
Serpentine charm always absolves

How and when did you seize the throne?
Taking over total control
Grinding to dust my heart of stone
With merciless fists of iron

God save the queen, her majesty
Arrogant sons, terrible teeth
Her fragile neck exposed beneath
Blood diamonds in a laurel wreath

Smile and wave
God, just see me