Baby, there's a
white chalk outline in the street tonight
for the boy down the road
who didn't have a chance at life.

There's a lady working down
at the truck stop on Third,
and she's racing home tonight
to confirm what she's heard.

That's her baby in a casket,
not the usual sort,
and his mother's screaming in the storm
begging God to take this hurt.

There's a girl across town
who lost the things she had,
and the only thing she knows now
is the fright that's in her head.

Her father's in the living room
where he loads his shotgun,
almost hoping that the
**** from prom will
show himself again.

There are children in the desert,
in the city, in the streets
and they are dying every day.
All we do is argue
over what is best to say.

The journalists and soldiers,
those who worked a mile high.
Honest folks are turned to martyrs
and their names are used in vain.
No one considers rationale,
only how to profit gain.

We're political, tyrannical, existentially obsessed;
we haven't got a thought for those
who haven't even dressed.

"They aren't here; they're there;
we haven't got the time."
But if there's anything I know,
it's that my time isn't even mine.

"Jimmy wouldn't take me out tonight."
"Martha never called me back!"
"I wish that Art had never talked to me."
"I hope you have a heart attack!"

People dying every day
and no one seems to give a ****.

We are vain and we are damaged
and we will never be the same.
It seems that all which matters
is just how well you play the "game."

Private Paradise:
Beware !
Barbed off by a generous brook
It smells of decent paychecks
success, children and books.  
It's all perfect really.
The monkey bars and slide
all green and clean
await your tender sons's arms;
waiting for the that time,
where you can give them yours.

Big victorian mansion/ island
spotting the minty green horizon,
A speck of comfort in an
artificial wilderness
near a safe and sterile street.  
Surely you feel one must resist
it's call and live the normal life;
how could you surrender to
such a pleasure which seems
to shine so unaturaly bright ?
Yet,
you can feel the summer air,
the ******* that seem to never
ever ware off .
The top, so far from mortal life:
an Olympus for mortal men.
Hooks you by the senses:
you can see your family
you can hear them call
you can smell the barbecue
and forget it all.

The sweat rises to pearly drops:

*It's for sale.