Make money. Attain currency. Feed the machine.
The machine we keep oiled with blood, sweat and tears
our wallets filled with unforgetable fears
time spent with a check
Currency is what is current, see?
Always on the brain, are we insane?
Money controls time more than the stars and the moon
consumed by debt, presumed to be dead
to the world; we are zombies.
Dead presidents on recycled paper, I reiterate.
Do the things we buy make us better people?
Does my mechanical Apple feed a child overseas,
or do those that oversee keep it out of reach?
Does the cocains taste sweeter when it passes
through Benjamin instead of Washington?
This is what's current, see this currency
that we kill to attain to build our trains
of thought. Only one thing keeps us waking each day
in and out as we punch the clock with
never ending tick tock each hour broken down
in dollar signs with each second a cha-ching of the change
that we so desperately seek. Change for a dollar, how
about change for a thought, not that jingle in your pocket
but a change of pace from our rat race of promotion
and contract signatures; pens that bleed through paper
in black ink that flows like blood from an open wound
that was your soul that was sold for a salary.
In a top floor condo, iron door with the locks to keep
out the trash that once was so well known
that knock knock of the pizza man trying to make his own
that you look down on, but his pay is honest
so who are you to admonish his standards of living?
This currency is what's current;
its current is too strong as it sweeps us away,
I too am trapped in its flow, am I happy?
What authority are you on to question me?
I spend my time to rhyme each day with the next.
This currency is what's current, see?

08/07/2012

Posted on 08/09/2012
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