Outside the courthouse, I cross the street to get myself a smoke,
Past the speeding cars and the angst of people within,
The old cigarette seller sits under a tree, broken and broke,
No wisdom in his eyes, only scarce hair and cracked skin.
I am trying to quit, but this lone cigarette is my respite,
A moment away from the depression of everyday living,
With every puff I gather courage, my lungs grow weaker despite,
Courage to fight and survive the accursed gifts life keeps on giving.
We trample and murder, our dreams and our soul,
Swallow insults and torture ourselves every single day,
In the hope that one day, all the money may make us whole.
And maybe just maybe heal our wounds and wash our sins away.
There is no truth to our struggle, we aren’t Gandhi, we are not King,
We have nothing great to say, we have no great revolution to breed
These are the final words from one man in decadence to another,
What world did our fathers build, what milk did our mothers’ feed?
The ash has fallen, it has fallen on our graves,
the graves that we built for ourselves,
eating junk and binging on the idiot-box,
We lost the battle,
Damn, we even lost the war,
Savor whatever little is left of your humanity,
for this cigarette is extinguished, and so is the light within us.