Slayer's "Chemical Warfarre"

It gapes, this catatonic toddler’s mouth of a city. Rancid greens of purification
streak the sky all Impressionist, marking the lines that segregate and delegate
the flow of traffic in the throughways of the air we breathe. Gridlock

now antiquated, these oxygenated denizens roam where they want to,
all around the world. Their flight path an abyssal abscess,
but these lepers flying, floating freely through the cosmos,
cosmopolitan ideals stripped down to stars and garters, they feel

love like Donna Summer’s eve, douche! No gas masks, no respiratory devices.
Just pure death in shades of gaseous smiles swirling in thick vapors coming
for you, all over you, all over the land on a loco motive of smoke

in the way that tangerines

taste just like the way tambourines sound
all alone in the quiet of jaded stone, a pretty lime hue
like that above encircling, entering, penetrating us and our defenses.

I’ve come to watch your gardens grow, mouth breather township. Don’t disappoint,
don’t let me down, deliver,

deliver,

deliver.