*There is no colour in your cell
and there's a reason for the smell.
There is no rain which you can taste.
Spit it out, or you get maced.
There is no walking on the grass
bend over, smile and kiss my ***
There is is no living in a tree.
My books, my laws, no mystery.
You were not raised to be a bird,
you, are a member of the herd.
There is no wingspace in the sky.
You work, you **** you die.
And you, you have no use for a guitar,
you are a peasant, not a Czar.
There is no colour in your cell.
It is supposed to rhyme with hell.
There is a reason for your cage.
There is a reason for your rage.*
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 2:47 AM UTC
*There is no colour in your cell
and there's a reason for the smell.
There is no rain which you can taste.
Spit it out, or you get maced.
There is no walking on the grass
bend over, smile and kiss my ***
There is is no living in a tree.
My books, my laws, no mystery.
You were not raised to be a bird,
you, are a member of the herd.
There is no wingspace in the sky.
You work, you **** you die.
And you, you have no use for a guitar,
you are a peasant, not a Czar.
There is no colour in your cell.
It is supposed to rhyme with hell.
There is a reason for your cage.
There is a reason for your rage.*
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