Structure as they see fit.
Cunning on the prowl.
Their judgment is fierce,
but oh, what beautiful Eros.
They lay down the law,
and we want to lay with them.
We are their laymen.
They are our deepest desires, our fires of lust grown flaming,
Propaganda's sweet face, and our sense of aesthetics is engorged.
And they have their way with us, but never in a way we see fit,
continually we're kept in suspense under
their direction - we want them;
but to gain their love or approval, we kill ourselves
and not in our satisfaction, but rather from their gross desire.
This is the realpolitik of sex -
we sweet maids want our Machiavel.
the head of Hobbes' leviathan,
oh that monster machinist...
Oh to be the country they master,
if only in the most wicked wet dream.