Our smiles, our cracked smiles

Never roomed longer, for our freedom was a week holiday; 

Our hope was dust, swerving afar.

We are old, soiled

But the buffoonery lumps, needles us

We want to tarry our weary heads, but the storms are masturbating our purity.

Our songs, our lost lay are whooping

We are, but birds caged in mud, stifled, and our lymph swelling.

 

We are tired, unassured of our pride

But this time, our suffocated voice will be raised;

We can’t live unheard

For we are wounded divas, rubbed by a sick rat

But tell him, that our walk with him has dropped.

Our backs will never be raked with thorns

And our wild toot can’t dwindle.

We will let the children repose, the elders rest

But our youth won’t be isolated

For we will redeem the impounded franchise

Even if there be an endless carnage.

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