It's a sick, sick town Where men have come to rot As a worm infested fruit Lying wet and rummaged on the ground
The neighbors with their bent noses And upturned mouths Bubbling with the agenda, the filth Of their smiling counterparts next door In town fiestas they squalor like Emperors on roasted pigs, rice cakes and goat bellies raised and slaughtered They dine like fine crickets loud And unconcerned about matters Which the small town does not speak
Scoundrels of politicians Fetchig money like leaves from their Cotton pockets Oh the election is under way! Come come there is money this way! Forget honesty it can only buy You a rumbling stomach and a hut Crumbling from debts and frets!
Who cares though When seventy strides from you Gunshots sparkle in the midnight skies All eyes fainted all breaths shallow And someone's just got wallowed In a heat of greed and contempt Poor son!Poor son! Used to know the wretch No family?No peso to his name? Let's move on to our siestas Justice won't spare us from hell
God has saved a seat for us instead The church has made its job clear Seven Sundays and we are but saved! But the crowd upon The altar thins like the old priest's head Gleaming like chalice In the dimming lights of the Lord The people look on and yawn For the gospel has now become As good as miracle, literally.
The poor remain poor The sinful prosper And this sick, sick town Has its marrows ****** Dry as a liar's throat And you tell me to love it Like a sweetheart of brazen days? Like the grazing stars in the Blank fields of bluish horizons I painted with amulets and rockets with my visions as a child? And you tell me I was born of a town About to sweep into nothing along with the collapse of its people?