Scared money don’t make none

Like a boss, like a peasant,

It’s so raw and unpleasant

What’s enough to the touch

Is the bauble of too much

Is the trouble with the rush

To assuage all the guilt

And excuses that we built

Three young virgins on the pyre

Wet bulb summer trending higher

Raising rabbles and a ruckus

Knowing strife will surely fuck us

stealing years days and hours

And devour what is ours

So the void is left to stew

In its juices and in you

Inner tides left to rise

Stolen valor to surmise

Breaking bread stinging toil

Broken arrows barren soil

Pity sours, left to shun

As we travel round the sun

And repeat repeat repeat

Our defeat defeat defeat