Before the leaves have even changed, while vile men run vile games, 

Comes the opiate of the masses, to give them cover, hide their names. 

The distraction from all that’s real roll in, 

And childish hearts ignore all other sin, 

Invested deeply in wins to cheer and losses to moan, 

When none of the surreal spectacle any of them own. 

And you use it too, to appeal to men, to block out your bane, 

But it’s just another cope, dear, and it’ll never hide that crinkled cellophane.