Текст: Propaghandi. Who Will Help Me Bake This Bread?.

I speak my mind, I question theirs. It seems to me like noone really cares. Peripherally blind, intellectually numb. Ignorance by choice, or just plain fucking dumb? You boycott your brain. You answer with fists. But my questions still persist (you fucking asshole). You can rearrange my face but you can't rearrange my mind. You can beat this shell about me, but you can't touch what's inside. SO now, who will help me bake this bread? Who will be the first to speak and leave complacency for dead? I've done all that I can on my own. But stagnant minds persist to squeeze blood from this stone. But I won't bleed for you. I have no need for you. Death will be the day I concede to you (As you can see, I really mean business. Poot!).