Dear God, 
The patient's best intentions have sadly faltered. 
Despite his newly installed, varnished brain, and being
force-fed gallons of viscous demented liquor, he is 
determined to obtain the new drone spiders' trophy. 

He dreams of [bad word] the scorpion who never sweats. 
Quite frankly i'm sickened to have this individual infiltrate
my headspace. 

He talks of lascivious laughs haunting his every second
as the clock spits, clicks, and time speeds by in the 
form of a neon snake. 
Massive delusions? 

Very probably. 
I fear for my safety. 
He is as weak as his fellow man. 
I am now surrounded by hypocrites, liars, [bad word]  
clowns, fools, sycophants and the desperate. 
I insist we barter with the moon to sell the patients
cohesive lyrical maps in exchange for a vision of the
future. 
Stricken with grief, I have no choice but to turn to lethal
toxins 
Hardcore Punk Paste. 
Allstars takin' over...