If I wanted to write about the meaning of life
I could do it.
If I wanted to make philosophers philosophise
I would do it.
If I wanted to win a pulitzer prize
I could do it.
So why do I write for commercial gain,
And not your critical acclaim?
Because I want to be read,
I want to be understood,
I want to communicate.
And if that's selling my soul
For the devils gold.
It's too bad.
I'd rather have that
Than your critical acclaim.

Drip
Drip
Drip
They call me a guinea pig
Even though I'm not.
I'm a rabbit,
By default.
Not that you can tell
Now that I'm bald.
They shaved off all my fur
And applied chemicals,
That burn.
They want to see if it stings;
When it drips
On human skin.
So they pour it on me.
It goes on for weeks.
It goes on neat.
I wonder if they'll ever stop?
I wonder what I did wrong?
But still it......
Drips
Drips
Drips

You like them young,
Beacause their keen.
Keen to die,
For your politics.
You send them off with a smile;
A smile that says:
You won't be there.
Tell them they'll come back heros.
But for every hero,
There's a hundred dead.
Send them to a land they know nothing of;
To fight for a cause they care nothing of.
If they win,
You'll be the hero.
If they die,
They'll be the dead.
Tell me,
How much are you paid?
How much money does it take?
To wash their blood from your hands,
To wash the guilt from your face?
It must be some wage.