My Epic, Your Trash Can

I. Lunchtaker:
Wrinkles have formed under the eyes
But hair nets erase them from sight
Staring at the same faces
Shloping the generic meal
Russian shots fill the void as a fog encircles

II. Leaktaker:
Tap dancing on a sink as neon light fills the room
Mind plays 52 pickup with a new deck
Neck buckles under the third chin
The clown shoes have come off
As the open hands now grip the only hope

III. Bustaker:
People skip to and fro everywhere
Unaware of the time bomb in their pants
Reflection on the window showcasing
The fear of a public transportation restroom
But here is the last stop, procession down the steps

IV. Gastaker:
Here it is, the dream climaxed for
Ultimate 10th grade petty aspirations realized
But now it is left in a ditch of street mime faces
Uncontrollable even when using a shock collar
How many years ago, the bottomless ceased to be fed

V. Sooooooooooooooooooultaker:
A pure flashback, comes in a fog between hogs
Lifting a face now covered in hot sauce
Before sinking any lower in sawdust, one final solution
A black, hard ring from a time when liquid candy came by the suitcase
Hold it over, changing it to a bright, sticky, glowing green
Zepplin was wrong, but was Sabbath wrong too?