We are simple bone,
tobacco in lung and
chin bone
there's this theory
that a man
sits high, in a golden throne
well above us
We crack knuckles
bruised from brawls and
caked with the earth's mud
yet, no matter the stake
this almighty, sits in his throne
Does he weep for the lost?
I think not
He created us as matter of fact
with clay and sun, and indeed
with wisdom
bestowed upon even the ignorant
None understand, and it is the great
feral sin
Man is nothing you see,
you are nothing
we are the beast
the tales late at night
your mothers warned you of
the ones your fathers left late
at night to slay
we are the monsters
smile for this fact
for being the beast
gives you the reason to
smile