Clean, ergonomically, psychologically conceited shopping centre.
Moloch, I stood all day in your temple.
I stood and surveyed those who came.
I stood and communed with your worshippers.
Moloch, I asked them why they came to the temple,
And although you paid me to ask them,
You made me richer than you would have wanted.
Moloch, today I stood and understood
Why they came to the shopping centre.
Moloch, I have sat and typed to your worshippers.
Moloch, you have paid me to write the voice of one of your prophets.
And although the voice was weak and few followed,
You have paid me more than you would have wanted.
Moloch, I now understand why they're listening.
Moloch, I understand why they supplicate.
Moloch, I have looked up.
Few look up, but I have looked up and noticed the hose-pipe swinging.
The hose-pipe hanging from the roof of the shopping centre.
And the funnel sitting in the roof.
And your fat and sanguine cheeks stuffed into the funnel.
And felt the breath (borrowed from your priests) sucking up.
Completing surveys with shoppers, I spotted the secret siphon.
Moloch, it is nearly over.
Moloch, we're in the final round.
Moloch, it's nearly over.
Moloch, you're so nearly there.
But, I'm Rocky Balboa, Moloch.
And (ironically) you're Ivan Drago.
And I will simply not go down.
Moloch, it is 1999.
And you are Bayern Munich.
And we are Man Utd.
Moloch, you are leading 1-0.
We're in injury time.
Sheringham (Marx, Lenin, Ginsberg, etc) has been on for ten minutes.
And they've just brought on Solskjaer (me).
You're about to lose.
Tomorrow, I'm going to fill in the surveys with wildly unrealistic answers.
And the right arm triggers back.
And the ball goes out for a corner...