"Let's do lunch," they'll say.
Reliability's on the menu
and you'll order, of course--
"Hey, that shit sounds good."
And with good faith you'll ask for it, only to have the waiter tell you,
they stopped serving it at two.
I only wish that,
after they tell you to "Heeey, call me sometime!"
and their phone number becomes a one-way service line to their voicemail--
you see them on the street, or a store.
And when you call them and see them ignore your call right in front of you,
you approach him or her and say,
"Hey, you self-righteous piece of shit!
You speak truths in blogs,
perform and model on webcams,
write love letters in text messages,
create digital memories
for a metropolis-revolving life,
yet you don't know the HTML code
to grow a pair of balls?
Or maybe you only send courtesy through MySpace messages."
These disconnected beings
wandering my city,
these kings and queens
deluded with monarchies stuck up their ass
with Louis Vuitton bags as fake as their rapport
and as empty as their promises;
but "fuck it," you say.
Just like a song gets stuck in your head,
it's a temporary plague that comes and goes;
suck the venom out and spit,
because that's all you can really do.
Well, I suppose the reason why it doesn't snow in Los Angeles
is because you're already bombarded by flakes every day.