| The saddest are, «it might have been»
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| Of all the words of mice and men
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| The saddest are
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| I like for my shoes to look like they’ve been walked in
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| My house to look like it’s been lived in
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| My car to look like a coffin that’s been driven off a cliff
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| My career like a non-stop graveyard shift
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| Don’t clean the crime scene cause time means money
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| Don’t need visine when my eyes seem bloody
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| I see dead people, but who doesn’t?
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| We walk undercover, deadpan blending in with other human puppets
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| Discussing nothing but the sports and weather
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| If I stare long enough they all morph together
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| Then I freak out, it’ll blow my cover
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| So I just keep out, no, we don’t know each other
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| I’m on the road to recovery, no GPS
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| Hoist in my sails ‘till the sea breeze rests
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| Suck wind if you wanna player hate
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| Day to day I use my fear of falling asleep to stay awake
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| I appear psychic-like, but I’m not a psychic
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| You’re just predictable with no fight left to fight it
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| If you write it they will come with a red pen and a tazer-gun
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| Let’s do something
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| I sift through the ashes in search of surviviors
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| Digging up the Earth filling urns with dirt
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| For what it’s worth I’m richer than the cemetary soil
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| I use slant drilling to get my midnight oil
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| I’ve been moonlighting as a daydreamer
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| I’m at the wheel of an eight-seater, (hey) hey mister gatekeeper
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| Call me key master, no, home owner
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| One, two and to the three and to the foreclosure
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| They said the war was over, but we know it wasn’t
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| They wanted more soldiers so we said «sure, fuck it»
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| Here’s a fresh batch of people with setbacks
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| The poor folk, in fact they’re all broke cause of your debt traps
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| Picking the pockets of people who probably needed assistance most
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| Selling them lies, selling them out, sending them off to a distant coast
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| Telling them anything anyone left with impossible debt is receptive to
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| Breaking a promise of negative worth like «buddy there’s nothing left for you»
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| Gotta buy buy buy to stay alive, they punish the payment delayed
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| Then they charge you for the low balance then they ask «why didn’t you save?»
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| Too long we took it on the chin, too long we took it to our grave
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| Now we take what we can get, fuck an unlivable minimum wage
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| Do something
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| It might have been
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| (Do something)
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| It might have been
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| Of all the words of mice and men
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| The saddest are Vonnegut busy
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| Do it, do it — mess up my mind (Vonnegut busy)
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| Do it, do it — mess up my mind
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| Sometimes I shoot myself in the foot, I put my foot in my mouth
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| Clean it while it’s there, and then i suck the bullet out
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| Reload the weapon, now that’s conservation
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| Stay locked and loaded in a bad conversation
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| He making blank statements like the circles of your ammunition’s finite
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| Visionary nothing, you’re a man who lives with hindsigh
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| Return to the hive mind and call me back
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| I’m predicting early that you’ll be the Monday morning quarterback
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| So, cocksure in a culture that gangs up on bully-types
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| Mob mentality, as if that isn’t what a bully’s like
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| Inspiration strikes like an union
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| I write these lines just to cross 'em, I’m concluding
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| If my mama don’t wanna she never has to work again
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| You never asked me why I spread myself so thin
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| I’m finna flirt dirty with the pen and flick my tongue on this bottom
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| I promise writer’s block ain’t never been a problem
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| I’ll probably make the columns wanna pop bottles of pain relief
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| Sometimes it’s what you don’t say that says the most to say the least
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| Idle feet are the Devil’s fetish club
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| A highly exclusive spots none of us are members of
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| Dante is a scrub — we kicked him out the van and steamrolled him
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| In 2010 we had a couple dreams stolen
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| Me and B. Dolan relocked and reloaded
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| When it feels like you’re going through hell, keep going
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| And as they say may the bridges that we burn light the way
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| Do it, do it — mess up my mind
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| Do it, do it — mess up my mind
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| Vonnegut busy |