Hey Monkey Men

With your stupidity and bad omens!
It’s all a space race:
With the faceless them
still setting the pace.
Yet, don’t lose track of your place,
or what they say is the ace trace!

Really,
all us fools and bums:
To further your plans;
sit forward;
give Grace
and embrace the lace bass –
which keeps you in time –
and in tune with the brace,
of faceless (tasteless),
Monkey Men;
who insist on laying waste
to your dreams of choice,
of place,
of time, to spread your mind and race
your own race.

They’re onto you and your funny ways
Profiling you
Dociling you
Infantilising and merchandising you.
It’s clearly in your best
To get invested in their
Popularity test

News is – their not resting
Till you sign over your vest,
Release your funds,
reveal those secret places
Cash in your treasure chest
that’s in your chest
And lives apart.
Must we populate their cloud
With our heart?