Day by slow day, the grind remains;
hot weather breathing down your neck, it stains
the white Hanes t-shirt underneath your v-shirt,
neck well-bronzed like Hollywood to be sure.
A preacher is calling out the names
of the people around, bringing to them shame.
When the people are crowned, singing to them fame
how the walking get crippled, the standing are now lame.
Make me tame, make me live, just never let me give
an ounce of my freedom for the glory of a crib.
The glorified McRib, the ancient Irish jig,
a pitcher full of alcohol from which they take a swig.
The life we live is just a race to die first,
the heat gets the best of us, Miami has the thirst.
Should nets curse the ocean, a boiling vat of salt
the scars come down faster than a fall on asphalt.
Take a malt and just halt, looking out onto the shore,
and see a world of distance from things we soon abhor.