I am my own instrument,
Not an object, but I speak blunt,
Streets run through me like they’re running out of time,
To doubt a mind is toxicity boxed into a paradox,
Tear approximately into me to make an era stop,
Errors got us programmed with the wrong data,
The wrong place at the right time might chime our own doom,
I’ll pluck the strings they tie me with to make my own tune,
The throne room raided and riddled by maidens and fiddlers,
Laid in the middle is the crown for the taking,
The sounds that we’re making are the only things to listen to,
Just listen…