(no subject)

[hip_hopper]

when the old man turns up his tired head
to the cloudy sky, he aches in his soul.
weighed down with lead, underground with the dead
his spirit, trapped in jail without parole,
longs for the freedom to shoot through the cloud.
in the stratosphere and out of control,
he'll dance, far from the impersonal crowd
that he wishes he could part like the red sea.
the call of the wild reaches him loud
and clear, more than the scream of a banshee,
but tempting as the siren's lusty song.
tied to his chair with ropes of injury,
of age, and of frailty, it won't be long
until death cuts his strings and makes him strong.