Peering up from my grave. Plies of dirt splashed apon my subservient soul, served from the very hands that pushed the small of my back.You sell me a year of your stalking prowess as time is you better save sum, for others of your own abrasive kind that count apon your sweet flesh and sweat of blood.
It’s all right baby look at me, look into my eyes what do you see?
I see your love of filthy penny’s that have no approval to be kept as they are retrieved by the hands of your very own kind.
Oh give me credit for my actions, I’m as cheap as the want of pain. You just don’t understand me.
If you’re worth is dirt that falls from the blade of a shovel Go-ahead.
Don’t cover your eyes, don’t fight me baby. Just a little more trust baby. Hang on to my words.
I cannot hold onto lies.
You just don’t pay attention to me, have I not been accountable for my reckoning and wit of my owners. Ψ
Monday 9th February 2009 © Copyright Peter Crawford 2009