Text: Spitfire. Cult Fiction. Track Marxist.

We greased our pockets with oil.
Then lined those pockets with black crosses of ash.
No ad space left on our foreheads.
Only barcodes and ink rash.
Burn, baby, burn.
Get out the kinks.
Burn, baby, burn.
Bring out the gimp.
Teflon president left unscathed.
War machine plows.
Set your waco ablaze

(Thanks to hard_dude for these lyrics)