feet touch dirt, hands touch the sky
|
clothes we made hang from a line
|
we've watched as siblings die and pray we never will
|
sing these work songs silently
|
melodies of a thousand years
|
add a new verse everyday
|
a tour bus passes now and then, glaring souls as black as night
|
spirits maimed and crippled could never understand this life
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their sympathy is laughable, we are the wealthiest alive
|
the hotels keep crawling nearer
|
the hum of bulldozers grows louder
|
their work songs blaze like bugles in our ears
|
the sickness is ambition, an insatiable appetite
|
to put their flags up everywhere, to burn down and build again
|
can you hold these ashes, tell yourself it was really worth the price?
|
Plastic priests on "great" missions
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Conquistadors with wicked grins
|
your treasure is a myth
|
no use in digging here
|
|
-----------------
|
Conquistadors
|
| The Honor System |
