Broken Wings
She led the mortal lifestyle trying to know what's cool Carrying feelings of littleness she learned from school She packed her bags and mapped out all her goals and moves
Now she's living in the bath house; her whole soul consumed
On the daily but maybe she can take a break Her reflection ponders in the golden ceiling as she makes it shake Tell her to live like a pastor, preacher or maybe saint But they visit her everyday to mend their shaken faith She has business men, and capitalists tearing her silken gown Whispering their intricate schemes to keep her people down Even as Earth rolls off the edges of gods frown Orwellian proles stay blissful in the lost and found Because these nettas must run to let their hearts pound Their footsteps in the distance are the only sound For these broken hearted artists, writers and lonely clowns But maybe I will think different when I get out of town