You try to tell us that image is nothing but sell it to us for the right price   The clown’s toy balloons are getting no laughs   Cut loose your demons on paper and ink   Smashing that glass and slicing your arm   Is this ironic to turn on yourself?   Wrinkled paper mutants scare them away   Something’s not right here   Nothing’s OK   They’d sell the blue from the sky   They’d sell the light from your eyes