I stand in exile
Some nowhere island hoarding plenty people
It rains a lot and still they work
No obvious ambition
And everybody
Is so eager to relax.
They just drink, dance, smoke and laugh
But meek enough to bow down to the money machine
They appear god-ish but
Nobody seeks
Study, work, fuck, marry, raise kids
Without much survival pressure
Never in my life did I dream of here
Yet here I am entrapped and footloose
See they emphasis a different type of life
Resemblance of soul but truly living as ants
Yesterday I asked a cab driver
“In an ideal world, what would you do?”
“A mechanic, yeah? Fix cars, more money.”
“But if you can be
The king of France
A Fighter pilot
CEO of all corporations
Pope of the catholic church
would you still be a car mechanic?”
“Oh, then no, yeah?”
“What would you be then?”
There was only silence
And I mourned for another wasted soul
“Make you think, yeah?” he says
Precisely, since you flushed it
Right down the toilet.
