AN: this frustration to the fullest.

Crusade of Enlightenment

I sit in this cell

plenty of time/crime not

a dime of trust to sell.



For the sirens, the cops

who'll shoot me to Brazil.

Hope you've had your fill of the bullets

from the mouth. Drought.


The music causes me to rock

to the bottom. Walking the streets,

hearing the beats of their drums

that'll make you, me, we run.

Ingrained into this earth.

It wasn't me.


The blood's too brown to be a brick

(stupid pricks the lot) of the house

so we can try melting it and

using it as fuel for the tea. God,

we're so clever that you almost feel guilty.

Bastards Never Pay. Rights In Genocide Have been



So when the sun coughs, blusters, sneezes

out and about the rain. Tell it (the git)

to shut up and look, sniff, hear (cheer) we're

not all the same.