Deadeye Constance Final

funny how honeys who love fucking sucking for money
consider talking something to do for nothing
till broken and rotten stuck between Miami and LA
buttoned shirts of drug dealing cousins who warned
working dirty dozen streets of the weak
with broken bottle dreams of booze and the sick
leave you bent as pretzel sticks but less sweet
sour powers patched kids all kicked in shin splints
wearing high heels not built for walking
how many ways can you slave for pay
to say you did something productive today
working extra hard to catch up with fads
able to spend it on bills
that make you feel like an adult not a member
of a cult of hippies shunning living
giving up what’s sacred to the god of love
shy away from societal crimes for the love of what was lost
acquitting the man whose hand does not fit the glove
bought with plots of soil to plant the seed of life
give us back our greener grass pastures
leaving pastors preaching to empty congregations
begging building for the lord
he needs his pick of places to stay when he visits the world
yet the earth is the Lord’s of course,
since he owns all these houses
till spouses stuck in pouting frownings
part ways to never say amen to lay men
who never made it in the world
pouring out frustrations in the name of the Lord
who bore pains on the cross to save us all
so we can slave away another way
seven ways from sunday to sunday
to one day be one way another the next day
how long shall we go for broke to prove
that we are smarter than the next guy
playing the game of life
loving honeys who stop talking the moment the well dries
flies filling up what was once a feast
cups of wine poured down
the throats of the never quenching thirst
belching with heartburn heartache
protruding stomachs burning down
the sound of town with gas burped
pound for pound the biggest heavyweight
fight between mind and hand
who knows the plight of man
stuck between saying thank you and trading time
for possessive possessions that own you outright
this loan is ours to lend to the borrower
who bends his will to say our rhyme
do our dance to the music of our sales pitch
pound for pound
the world’s greatest heavyweight bout
fought between the heart and the mind
who wins? who holds the dream?
who sits at the end of the finish line
waiting for us to climb out of the rat race
saying we made it, we stopped fighting our peers
leaving the dark fears and years behind
for the glistening light bright shining evening
of the rest of our years we are here
now help us cheer
lift us high on your shoulders
let us jeer at all still stuck in blindness
the darkness swirling their every thought
trapped in the mires of never satisfied hungry
envy derived strife

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