Television; all hail grand pixelated god of
fantasy, murder-scape, and bent perspective. [bad word] a sore channel changed digit,
I sit with a nasty network intravenous plan,
with a stable diet of my cable pirate.
Yo, the doctor is in, the doctor is on,
born the [bad word] son of static radiance cloned to [bad word] in every home.
Let a blue screen, [bad word] dream canopy
victim of the cursed nursed Technicolor [bad word] support team.
Ooh, I love all advertisements
though accused by robot news casters who capture and pollute
spoon-fed hazardous fog to joy luck catholic squad.
Please take me, please calm me, please make me a zombie
please I want to donate my brain to the monstrous Panasonic prophet
Now, twenty-first century plagued
dispersed to wide-eyed glamour addict patients
telecast patrons
Blue be the propaganda banners, well, sure I'll be a Marine
with a clean sword and blue uniform, it only takes a dollar and a dream.
And I abide, great idiot box power-supply, fuzz vapor,
blackout of New York. Hey honey, get the generator,
I'm in a doom, doom generation, pacin', ancient electric secret
never sleepin' to miss the AM oasis
my name is a wired heart, sloppy obligation
turn my stilt into my guilt and have a chatter-box blame-frame adjacent station
Make reality scrambled and suck the life out of a hidden vandal
and loving every minute of the gimmick, change the channel.

Plug it in, turn it on, prop me up against the couch
lights out, I ain't ever gonna have to leave my house
satellite dish, get up on my wish list, turn me to a tyrant
let my clean spirit dissolve through the appliance.

Plug it in, turn it on, be my mother when she's gone. Great,
wipe the spittle off my chinny-chin during the breaks.
If I gotta go blind I'mma do it for the love of all television kind
and that's fine, and that's fine...

Make me a star, I wanna touch gold,
hold me suspended in a dream, meerly inches from the screen
Deleted passions sacrificed to one electron monster [bad word] my little future to the monitor. [bad word] it feels good: turn on, tune in
zoom in to hug the bug up in your family function.
"But the children seem to love it.."
Yeah, smother me in wild discovery
and herd the static flock to where I sleep
by the glow of that magic box. Big speaker,
stereo mastered, often kill the freak-seekers, eyes spiraling,
tangled in the star-spangled wiring.
I can turn from toxicated visuals
and all the kings horses abort the loyalty to royalty, [bad word] the fortress.
Riddle me with glee, hoist the end-all telepromt above my sleeping head
I'll be dead by morning anyway.
Color my values with mundane humor in thirty minute tickets
to feel the magnetic seal. Picket censorship,
I [bad word] twenty four-seven,
I wanna shop from my bed and set an
example for all my overworked, underpaid brethren.
I bond with a sick string of correspondent
and lurking circuitry circus
with allegiance pledged beyond the glass surface.
Adamant students within the fine school of possessed graduate catalysts,
channel zero addicts, immaculate.
It goes: big screen, little screen, any screen'll do
just let me hold the controller and I won't have to murder you.

Plug it in, turn it on, let my little eyes glaze,
twenty screens lined up along the borders of the maze.
I wanna see the five-day forecast fourteen days in advance
so I can get my two weeks notice every time the sun dance.

Plug it in, turn it on, silent fix better than nothing,
let a once divine soul feel the functions of the hypnotist,
the viciousness, ridiculous, piquing a dummy's interest.
Touch the power button meet your maker, ain't that something?

Plug it in, turn it on, say goodbye to Sunday afternoon,
fix the antenna, sit back and let disaster bloom
It's a beautiful sight, with a most ugly intention
but I taste it everyday