come with it know, slacks
thats goods
and jazz surrenders
you on your back, alone
they keep blues and guitars
san fran, no lights a stand between you and peace

today, no progress
the city won't allow me a food
my civil rights, a cover up attempt of my disobedience
trained thoughts, residue of salt
slips through my metabolism
the deserts of war in my veins
pushed by federal crimes, poverty
add more neglect
the general deserves this mule

huck the missle, cup that breaks
white movement
across my wrists
irish cost of quarter of that yard