How unfortunate that it has come to this,
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we all pay to die as rogues, as workers,
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nomads and searchers, sweat to shackles and leads to lies.
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Still we're all under lock and key,
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who are we but savages hooked on accessories,
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numb and dumb to what else we could do or be?
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Repercussions at a lull, slow me down,
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let me come around to those starving in the streets,
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some are mothers, some are fathers, all are sons, all are daughters,
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left all alone and seen as disease.
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Still we pass and we watch them bleed,
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will not wash away with rain,
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a person's blood is heavier than
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who's the disease?
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Sons And Daughters
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| Hot Water Music |
