You may well find yourselves hemmed in,
by what has happened, what may yet,
And by this swath of skin.
The Kriminals are peeking through the blinds,
Tucked beneath their greasy hoods all kinds
of outrageous sin.
Lock up your door love, throw away the key,
do your deeds in the darkness
Where the dirty men don't see.
We've created a box where you'll be safe as a house,
manufactured wholesale, from the breathing air,
right down to the dust
You'll be happy, healthy, sane and without care,
If you'll content to place your trust in us.
Our greatest tragedy is realised,
In that the skin is not yet synthysized.
While yes, your hair and nails are now Us-made,
The rest of the body, mind and soul
It grieves us much to have to say
Are, as yet. quite beyond our control.
But not, my dear, for very long!
Here comes the slender swish of scalpels --
Is something wrong?
Oh no, the utmost demands of taste
Are our surgeon's chapels --
Cherie, we've come for your face.
And now, my sweet, we'd like to thank you,
for giving us the wanton liberty
To in Our Image, re-shape you.
And you are yet as free -- as any bird --
To flutter through your gilded collonade,
Our Brave New World,
And as you wish, may you live out your lives,
In Perfect Bliss -- with husbands, babbies, wives --
We leave the gate unlocked, we do not fear,
We trust in your stark terror of what's OUT THERE
And of offending us. It burns your being
That we should look upon your Works
And sniff, 'Obscene.' We know --
You're quite content to sit,
And sit, and fold your wings,
And sing.