Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Richard Seymour does what he must.
Sells his soul to earn a crust.
Lies and spies, he’s earned our trust.
Yellow. Acid. Drips off Cliff.
Cowardly. Lyin’. Smokin’ their spliff.
Rollin’ lemons gather no moss.
The petty bourgeois has no boss.
They’re intellectuals. They do what the like.
Majority voters can get on their bike.
Their faction’s a fiction. Their group will soon bust.
Repulsive atoms will scatter like dust.