I stand over the slot where I feed the machine,
Listening to the hissing and crack as it chews.
It feasts on the suicides of demigod songwriters
With scheming wives who use it for fame.
It tears at the scandal of political vandals
Who care more about money than the people they hurt.

I'm to blame, for I feed the machine
That gobbles the bundles of lies and abuse.
I buy the stories that sensationalize life
And laugh at the decline of civilized morals.
I stand and get paid for feeding the beast,
And I live with the fact that I'm part of its crimes.

I stand with the mother who drowns her two babies,
I watch as the girlfriend cuts off his dick,
I laugh as the gunshots rip through the Post Office,
And I cry for the children of rock-star addicts.
I keep on stuffing in bundle after bundle,
And I hope that someday the machine will get full.

I could be one of those people
That might be mistaken
For some crazed rapist
Murderer-type
Or some deadbeat dad
Who likes to watch porno
Or somebody's husband
Lover or friend

I could be one of those people
That might be shown
On the evening news
For some maniacal act
Which led to an act of heroism
Or somebody's hero
Who thwarted
Someone's maniacal act

I could be one of those people
Who wouldn't blame a soul
That might be mistaken
In believing what they hear
For the day is coming
When judges will be judged
And someone might be
Mistaken for me

Just before rush hour,
before happy hour,
before prime time,
When it can be only me and the...
FUCK!
...cute young girl they hired
Last week.

I browse new releases awaiting her
Break.
Minutes passing hours sweating
Cautiously waiting to make
My move
To the tapes marked "mature."

Once in the partitioned room,
Away from the families,
the prudes, and
the clerks,
I realize I'm just another
Shoe-staring pervert.