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Suicide Note.

*

I'm so tired of being poor
I'm so tired of being a money-whore
I'm so sick of your fucking war
You're so easy to ignore
Please, Mr Gates, can I have some more?

I had four walls, I had intent
I had three wives, all Heaven-sent
I had two jobs, to pay the rent
I had one heart, and then it went.

Are you in touch with your own feelings?
Do you like us quietly kneeling?
While our balls you're busy stealing?
I'm doing a class next week on holistic healing.

Colon-cancer, blood-stained shit
Neighbors busy trading kicks
Lovers slice themselves to bits
Mother's TV, late-night flicks

Seize the moment, always stoned
Shared amnesia, sensual tone
Working hard to be alone
Making love by telephone

He's a hero, she's a doll
Pop songs in a discount mall.

All your filth won't raise my dick
All your drugs just make me sick
Both your parties, bags of tricks
Both your faces packaged slick

Bus or feet, car or train
Get to work, it's all the same
Cola dreams or pepsi pain
Watch your life go down the drain
Don't look at me, I'm not to blame
Follow orders, take the strain.

I'm so tired of being poor
I'm so tired of being a money-whore
I'm so sick of your fucking war
You're so easy to ignore
Please, Mr Gates, can I have some more?

Don't look at me, I'm not to blame
We're just pawns in a rich man's game
Follow orders. Take the strain.


fx
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