A dozen starts, a dozen stops
Just like one man getting beat down
by one half a dozen cops
Having trouble getting himself off the ground
Just like my vain attempt at an anthem underground
Bloodied fists and ziptied wrists,
like a Hefty bag, or holy rag
or paper in the wastebasket
Covered with my clever turns of phrase
and puns on The Internationale
Bandit faces lacking graces
chase the steps of older blood
and fall down in their paces
Impertinent and insolent
and beaten where they sit
their mouths are full of gravel
and I’m just full of shit
