Proportions and Final Sums

Мельчают темы лженауки,
Зато реклама высший класс,
Ведь оглупляют эти суки
Почти что каждого из нас.



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Искать поддержку идиотов
Таланту смерть, а потому
Умри один, зато в Полёте,
Сказав "прощай" всему дерьму.




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Proportions and Final Sums

The doubtful ones are far and few,
The blind believers crowd the way.
And so, in lies, without a clue,
Pseudoscience fades away.

Doubt was cast out from the masses,
Propaganda rules supreme.
Now the world, ensnared in ashes,
Feeds the Beast’s eternal scheme.

Filth has shown its face unshaken,
War now writes the next grim page.
Fools embrace the doom awakened,
Slaves to madness, vice, and rage.

Few remain whose minds aren’t taken,
Doubt’s the cure, but thought is banned.
Evil’s reign is now unshaken—
That’s the sum, as fate had planned.



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The Path of Doubt

Doubt leads the way—rejecting lies,
Relying on your mind alone.
You’ll leave the fools, the blind, unwise,
And find the light of thought your own.

Don’t seek the sane in herds that cower,
Obedient to evil’s call.
Their only goal—preserve their power,
By wrapping fear in lies for all.

And those who dare to doubt and see
Are rare amidst the mindless throng.
Yet now the word spreads endlessly—
That such as they don’t quite belong.



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About Predators

A barracuda isn’t worst—
There’s one more vicious, cruel, and vile.
It walks the earth, its soul accursed—
A Judas lost to truth and bearing guile.



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Subspecies

A Judas, a fraud,
A word-twisting lord,
Far worse than Pol Pot—
Sends fools to be shot.

With lies they command,
The beasts rule the land.
Through filth and through war,
Their words kill much more—

Yet fools march along,
For “safety” they’re gone.



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The Path to the Pen

Read to escape,
Watch, drift away,
Don’t interfere—
Let scum betray.

They rob, they lie,
Yet none resist.
The fall is nigh—
A fate unmissed.

The price—your mind,
Your soul in pain.
Honor declined—
The sheep remain.



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Opinions

Self-regard is still opinion,
Fleeting all, they fade away.
Entropy brings decomposition—
Rotting stumps still dream of may.



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The honest science fades away,
But ads are sharper than a knife—
Those bastards fool us every day
And dumb down almost every life.



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To seek a fool’s acclaim is vain,
For talent, it’s a deathly snare.
So die alone—but soar again,
And leave behind the world’s despair.



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The taxman is the devil’s blade,
Dissecting all with greed displayed.
He takes his tithe—no less, but more,
Yet idiots endure the chore.

He carves the world, a lifeless heap,
And tears off chunks to hoard and keep—
All for a rule where slaves obey,
Schwab-style, in the modern way.



--- Total 11 poems. ---