Hunger is the cancer with a cure bread lines are hiring open mouths. The discarded pass with empty bellies, an outstretched hand reaching for crumbs, that never come.
Money is the panacea of poverty prostitution wages are tax free. When she opened her thighs the world shifted on its axis, AIDS was paid forward. Play that on a Trojan commercial.
Freedom is an illusion painted by white collars. Section 8 homes are speakeasies of the downtrodden. Cardboard boxes are the architects *******, and trash bin bonfires come calling me.