for the times

i can pay you from my profits
but the profits never come
the major airlines will get seven billion
but I am only one,
running a trade
turning the page
on a life of no change
we walk the streets talking
the girls and guys gawking
and all the while hawking
our most precious and divine
there is no time
we lost it all in storage
the landlords’ drama bored us
the winds and rains poured on us
and we were left in tents
we had no money for rents
we wanted to be nomadic
but we were constantly held by cabinet
to a rock on a road’s hard place
a locked ransom not in concrete
i cannot stand it
i feel they planned it
and what ever happens
i am going to be fucked
it’s enough
this is fucking rough
all the sheep are lost
and the boy, lonely on a hill,
has cried wolf
and wolves are killed
but there are no thrills
like taking back the homeland
re-occupying the highland
generating the skyland
i stand in sinking sand land
dunes richochet in