He strode into a Mojo Bar and ordered up a shot, from his memory pack, pulled a snap of boardroom ballads setting up their day… they say it’s fair and…

Before we destroy the competition, screw the customers, and laugh all the way to the bank, let’s bow our heads to pray.

The Wiz pulls a payment card and smiles a morning cheer… cos batshit double tea hatters fill him with “the fear. ” Intrepid student wrecking crews steal victory from the jaws. While the self-driving uber fleets deliver hookers all night long.

And the planet… in a fit… swallow souls randomly. And 400 years go by as Cajuns hit the sand. But here and now… here at home… cops shoot kids skittishly. And everywhere it seems people rage to bring their guns.

The free exchange of dangerous ideas meant to deepen minds take a hasty exit on Eden highways where even rockers lose their souls. And laundry ladies pick stringed rhythm to the drying clothes. While bleach is for the eyes of federation mojo bros. Hands change in dollars and dimes. The Federation crowd looks inquisitive to the Wiz. But he breaks down in tears… falling from his crown like rain in Fat City. They want to help his trouble and his pain, but the Wiz just keeps cryin’. Where politician trains… cruel potential worlds… Colombian civil wars… end in time for rocky mountain stoners to load their bowls from the Mojo Bar.