crap

[goslin]

There's a parasite in my gut
It makes me sick to touch
That nasty bug is eating me
from the inside out

There's a strange wind at home
It's hot, then cold, then rain or snow
The ducks, confused, wont fly away
Bodies rot where joggers go

There is no colour, culture, church
who doesn't share this poisoned air
Fingers point at smoking poor
While smoke stacks stand freely there

Anger rises, channeled for
the interests crushing all the poor
Is your life so pleasant
that you scream at the scrounging peasant
How we direct our blame
When we're all levels of the same
glaring down, instead of up
wasting life on giving up