Three black telephones are ringing, telling for brand new disasters.
While the dollar bills are singing, praising heavy-handed masters.
Here the lawyer in a suit
asks me what I plan to do.
I just wipe my muddy boots, and I shout, "No," at you.
Every screen is flashing red.
Throw the tie into the street.
I am done with being dead, stepping out on my own feet.
Send the bills straight into hell.
Come and pick the morning berry.
Ring the independence bell. Keep your wandering soul merry.
Dance barefooted by the ditch.
Leave the city for the rich.
Hey. Hot asphalt under the toe, choking on gasoline and haste.
People by and never know
what a life they chose to waste.