This Is Only a Test (The Tornado) The Paper Chase

Hara-kiri, kids, come kill yourself
Slice your throats and spurt the blood
Paint a wall cloud weather cell
A vortex of self
Put your tongue in the mouth of the old funnel cloud, Adel

And I have become pregnant with myself
Bloated bellies distended out like corpses sweat and swell
We fucked ourselves
Let our thighs fall to each side of the cyclone they sell

No pie graphs or charts to speak of
No slogans for the repeating
No silver bullet was shot
No hand over heart, no X marks the spot
No catchphrase for stars a-feignin'
No big letter writing campaign
No fanfare fills up the room
No interviews, no big kaboom

The fruit is falling 'cause the tree is rotting, my dear
You were a good mare for the state
But you're no longer needed here
Go back to your coup
I will chop off my head as an act of contrition for you