A hundred thousand channels are shallow

when viewed with certain scrutiny.

The contrast to reality

makes fiction seem verbose.

This method of life costs fifty a month,

out entire lifes wasted,

yet we've never tasted,

true entertainment.

Our sets are aglow,

the TV guide infront of us

will let us know how to spend

the rest of our day, inside.

Away from the fresh air,

or the smell of exhaust

exhuming our lost hopes,

of an ideal life.

Our television sets aglow,

with all the hard ships that we'll never know,

all tuned to different show,

we're all watching endlessly

Hundred-fifty channels,

keeps us occupied when we get home,

all we do is sit and watch

supposedly no where else to roam.

Far, far away from the fresh air,

and the exhaust pipes,

exhuming our hopes

of an ideal life.

AN: Not my favorite, but I worked hard on it, going through multiple revisions, so I'll post it. Be nice, I know it sucks.