It was... It was the kind of town where sleeping minds slept.
Where the streets were empty....save the moving coffins sealed tight
The people...us...I'm one of them, we scurry like little rats to our cages
to deal with people where there must be dealt. The job...
The system sent catch 22 to minds like we a sorry song. To keep us in a groove cut tight.
To keep us in our cages.
Our cages,
The home,
The house,
One small place to break free in
or break-in free.
And scott free was not the price we payed to perpetuate the minimum wage existence, that like once said*, kept us sleeping in our heads.
*Credit for this poem should be given to a sparkly noodle who brought such mumbulings to my attention.
