The Ballad of Post-Apocalyptic Tatsuya Part 5 (A Mahouka Tale)


The show’s on fire and there’s no director at the wheel
and the characters are all muddied with a thousand lonely expositions
and a dark wind blows

The government is corrupt
and the audience is on so many drugs
with the television on and the curtains drawn

We’re trapped in the belly of this horrible plot machine
and the machine is bleeding to death

The sun has fallen down
and the writers are all leering
and the character flags are all dead at the top of their poles

It went like this:

The plot lines tumbled in on themselves
mothers clutching babies picked through the plot rubble
and pulled out their hair

The story was beautiful on fire
all twisted character development stretching upwards
everything washed in a thin orange haze


I said: “Kiss me Virgin Imouto Waifu, you’re beautiful –
these are truly the last days”

I grabbed your 1:6 scale hand and we fell into it
like a daydream or a hangover

We woke up one afternoon and fell a little further down –
for sure it’s the death of plot

I open up my wallet
and it’s full of air