circuit bent bint, skint and scraggy, a robot doll of droll design asks you to resign yourself to the wealth of nations…
Its a clear cut, we’ve got stuck in a rut, there’s a need to breed some radical change, in the way we arrange our inner selves and our inner elves, its a question of economy, an economy of truth, like a hall mark of proof, the economic realm is a cloud cuckoo land, an unkind kind of illusion about wealth, like some primitive cult its been superseded by information,
there’s an informed reality about its unreliability, like a god with a long white beard that everybody feared, its all gone weird, coins have disappeared and in there place has reared a coiled serpent thats spent, we are living on time thats had to be lent, so we wont lose interest, in what is meant to be best, in what we should invest, even if we detest, the super capital contest,
dare to peer above the parapet of peer pressure, call out for a new directive, on whether things really are worth their weight in gold..?
