The Mob Drools

desiccated shibboleths slouching
shoulder to shoulder, ass to belly
pasted on a face from yesterday

pinched and bitter
better days past forever
indifferent to what they're being used for

whatever it takes to pwn imaginary enemies
moar winning plz boss

nothing matters, nothing is true
no use for facts or context
only for pulse and rage and rhythm and
animal urge
the buildup to the purge
that they dream darkly

when the lights are out and the music's over
anger-jizz pooling on the arena floor
until tomorrow
when fresh outrage comes calling
and needs a face to sell the next lie