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.