They spit and they spat,
Cursing under they’re demeaning stare,
Arrogantly pressing for more and more,
Soliciting our worshipers to have no remorse,

They incessantly beat down our blood red doors,
Not asking but taking what’s rightfully entitled “yours”,
What man shall I make of myself if all I am is treated unfair?
A square on the piece of pavement, walked on and spat on,
Here and there ****** on and ruggedly sat on,

The job to make the worlds people happy is a seedy sordid affair,
Constantly they forcefully beg for more and violently pursue to no bore,
They scratch and tear for no amount of fear could tell them go elsewhere,
We unite once we all go to war but still hate and take advantage,
0nce we forget the worlds up in roar,

The ****** gore does not sleep or snore,
It lies and waits to feed on the incapacitated poor,
Littering the bones of the forgotten on our city floors,
Rich or Poor we all end up shedding tears and asking the meaning,
“What’s in store?” My hungry heart is teeming for a life of folklore.