slouched over coffee cup s'though it were made of sterner stuff/he
she was born on 9/11/01 and died on 1/08/11, one more day and the numbers, man, the numbers would have been something, something, man, for sure,
and he talked again/to the no-one there/he
Born at the tragic start of one decade, only to be taken away
at the tragic start of the next. This,
he said, this
is one sick cruel game we're playing with ourselves. How can we?
How can we keep telling ourselves that this is the promised land? How can we
keep telling ourselves that God has made us so great, when all we do is
fire bullet like we're living the hiphop that we drink so far down into our/souls,
that turns us so twisted that all we can see is the Crosshairs
aimed at the faces of liberals, and we
paint them in their own blood
with grey matter staining the sidewalks of the Safeway, and we
love it! Man, we love it! We can't get enough of it!
When are we gonna have had enough of it?
When are we gonna be satisfied? I don't think we can - I think
it's like porn, man, you see one picture, pretty soon you gotta see
another "just one more! just one more!" it's like drinking, just one more,
another bottle won't hurt - another toke won't hurt,
this line of coke - no big deal!
Slot machines! Just one more round. Hit me again, bartender!
Pony up to the table, boys - dealer's wild but I'm hot tonight. I'll run the
house, just you watch!
And now - the guns. The sideways firing with the 40-round magazines,
thinking we're so tough, acting like we have to kill to make
our voices heard, but
how many more children have to die, before
we finally say, "whoa! Let's open that Bible for REAL this time
and teach ourselves again about
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