Story behind the song
The Robot Is Dead Meat by 2978 AD
Let's not beat around the bush. The bullies, and I have not a clue who they are, want mew dead. They inhabit a world where death to junkies is way ok. That I'm not one, and anyway have a heart condition, an actual damaged heart, partially dead itself, is of no consequence. They will sit there up themselves believing they have successfully lied to all and thus have a right to treat me as an enemy of World War Two proportions. Their world gets by on fear and acting tough, or alternatively, acting sincere.
A joke for them is not something that is actually funny.
They won't mention the reason I'm still alive. In fact, the truth out of their mouths is not possible. The magnitude of their lies, their myth making, their tradition, is likely what baffles people and makes them believe there is truth in their assertions.
There is none. And I deflect them whenever I can. In truth they are foul mouthed thugs, jealous of everything about me.
They sit there, using the name, first name, of my brother, my first name, family references like father or sister or mother, expecting to be thought of as good, with a bizarre private in-house up itself play God philosophy, whilst in fact they just want an excuse to sit on me all day and rape. They are into making a huge sarcastic Joke out of anything I do. Whatever they tell you, they loathe me, always have. A vendetta. All are cowards. I have not a clue who they are and that, to them, in itself, is cause for their celebration, in every aspect of the word. They never tire of hating me. Love is not a word anyone truly in love actually uses. But they do, knowing they might get some from me, my family, my love. They will act any old way, with apparent sincerity, to buy more time, saying I'm buying their threat to me, my family, my love, my name, my character. They are the Kings of Slander. Years and years of practice, almost all of it off me, my name, my character, my time, my work. Never tire of how clever their dead weight get me spy on me bake me is. Never tire of it. Cowards and psychopaths. Ask them to shut them or face me. You'll get a sad sack earful.
They are not fans, nor have they ever been. Shame Western Australia. Some of you know them, and know I suffer in silence for their continuous stare at me. It's a perfect murder for them, you all know it, and you sanction it.
Explain it to my mother. The real one.
Scrap that. Call on me. Explain it to me. Now. As of the time of this post.
And watch them act, not move a muscle, confirming that only a bullet will stop them and no one can kill the way they do.
