Let me tell you a story that’s told, a place that’s dark and filled with brimstone A place that can feel hot or cold, a place where brightness can unfold Where men abroad are worn thin, some seem to think about little else, but skin And as they walk their walk and talk their talk what they truly want passes like a gust of wind The body and mind are acutely fixed, they lose their footing, they’re crossed and tricked Head strong yet clumsy, tempered like an iron bar, these men will tell you what they think from afar No real who’s, what’s, where’s or know how, their tongue trebles, it declares, without care or clarity, it cracks like a snare Preaching strong and wide and broad like the big churches of St. Sinclair singing songs throughout outdated speakers, oh god The opinions of shepherds are often the rumors of sheep, trapped in gossip like the bonds of viral news excused for tweets They wear it on their arms and nationalize their pride all while being humble, they claim, but knows not who it harms They make a point to point fingers for points overwhelmed with the poignant denial they pass off as practical Cracking irony with their minds white washed from the wash and their thumbs I mistake for calloused ****** This human condition we oft’ know well, is dying right under our nose Medicine won’t help those who are only concerned with what happens above or below