by the crossroads in town
while the unloved ones drown
and so
you will die with the side kick, always on the ropes by the fight
and the lake is dry but everyone is stuck on the ice
through the soup kitchen prize
and the forecast of lies
you were poorly advised
but if
there are pastures of plenty how can all the fortunate hide
what is rightfully mine. it oughta be considered a crime
but their money is power, and power doesn’t serve any time
but a fistful of green
in a wall street wet dream
couldn’t wipe your soul clean
now i
am inclined to remind you oil doesn’t burn the same
when it’s tainted and bloody it’s up clogging my vehicle’s veins
with the blank shotgun stares,
and the front line impaired,
are the pawn-pushers scared?
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