men of means whose fingers probably never touched the soil
wrote a second bill of rights to save the second world
that train's still rolling
way back home we curve the bend, head up the last ravine
lost traction to a hemorrhage, lost our head of steam
now I'm sick and homeless
the ridge begets and small and shining rivulet of gold
preternatural wealth withstanding, would you dip your toe?
I think I might...
denial is a tender mother nature doesn't need
you need not shake his hand, you needn't satisfy his greed
don't tow that grief
that lonesome whistle oughta echo in your soul
don't the art of breathing inspire you no more?
I'm gonna read a book, I'm gonna make myself a pie
I'm gonna grab my woman, take her out on the night
when that train pulls in
I'd love to see the painter's touch
across that thought of line
but I know that I presume too much indulging in this history rhyme
but I got my interests
like the second bill of rights
the second bill of rights...