The hour grind’s hard on the armour.
The salty rain Waters’the grain.
The alarm clock ,clocks the night seem short as secret socks.
Back to the Man really I’m not a fan of his day plan.
Sung the money song, all day long.
It was sawed with pieces of the soul.
It was paid in a pound of flesh.
My hands are my tools you can check are filled with evidence.
The smile buried the storm.the pay can not keep me warm.
Monday is the worst, Saturday I go empty my chest.
Pity, I am bit shakey.
All seems systematic
Suffocated by the need for sufficiency.
Midnight blues sleeping on a bed of nails.
The bitter taste lingers even when hazed.
The routine is mastered ,the walls plastered
The numbness reflected , the true mission for manifestation neglected