Shame and secrecy Have come to die Along with art That pa**es The emperor has no clothes And we ma**es Have been taken again For a**es In an effort To connect To something outside of ourself We seek meaning In things That often have none Except what we ourselves imbue Blind spots dictate I think not me You think not you But it must be true Shame and secrecy Have come to die Along with art That pa**es The emperor has no clothes And we ma**es Have been taken again For a**es 7/11 time And gregarious grunts Pentamic meter And current shunts Truss rods of crooked necks Clever inventions Or flysh** specks Where there's nothing of the sort Redundant formulas A void to report I'll retire from believing I just don't get it Pirata's de underground Please just forget it Friends that really aren't Art devoid of emotions Our own emotions Bottled and sold back to us In watered down libations of our sights Sounds, feeling and thoughts We are unable to convert To art ourselves Wise man bestowed proverbs With sage season Seemingly, when tried for treason Of art with no reason