There is No Lars in This Metal

The Lars of my payee department
Is all out of the bullshit concessions
For the tempered video metal
Everyone’s choking on while the kids
Are in the closet praying to be dissected
From the malignancy growing out
Of their televisions and conjoining
Their heads in a neat column
Of mush consumption, a pulpy
Regenerative credit card you like to see
Swiped through your purchase orifice,
Lars, before you slam a ding dong
Of garbage into their pie shaped
Falsified emoticon receptors. There are no
Remains, Lars, only the broke and fetidcore.