Burning Man 11
℃ 233 (Burning Man II)
It's just my job, let me try to explain.
When the alarm goes off, I slide down to earth again.
Ride like the wind, across this town.
We stop for nothing. We hunt them all down.
We arrive at the crime, we don't waste any time.
We look for Histories, and Mysteries, and anything that rhymes.
We pile them high. We like to use the porch.
We douse them with fuel, while someone gets a torch.
We kill those books. Yeah, they're no good.
They're filled with lies. They're written by fools.
They make you sad. What right do authors have,
To make you feel bad?
You know one day, well, I picked one up.
It was Huckleberry Finn, or some such rot.
When I was through, it made me sad.
What right do authors have, to make us feel bad?
We kill those books. Yeah, they're no good.
They're filled with lies, simple people can't do.
They make you sad, That you were born a fool.
Now, Count Beat, put some more kerosene over there.
They're all bad! They feed you lies.
They're filled with fantasy.
They make you dream.
Now, Count Beat, go and get the torch,
Or better still, get the flame thrower.
What, what are you doing?