There's no being real, no holy ceiling
There's no such thing as an authentic human being
There's is no alternative gypsy lifestyle that validates you
These are not ingredients for a character stew
It's just some groovy denial
No such thing as real even in attempts at bizarre
There's the addict with just two strings on his guitar
Living on the street shouting "what's up bra!"
Only substancial as a pity magnet
Preaching wood, but it's all plastic
There's the Prepper or organic person
Says the race for money is the worst one
Real because they don't need supermarkets
Humble, no inner envy or ambition barking
No desire for vanity spontaneously sparking
No contrast in views no inconvenient overlaps
their pain and suffering deserving of the collapse
Humbug sanctimony stepping ahead of the preacher
Both vilify the contributor and exalt the leach
Zealots of a dogma pretentious underneath
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