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The American Dream
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Working Life You call me in, shake my hand, and congratulate me.
I humbly thank you for giving me the opportunity, yet you shove it back in my face and tell me I’ve earned it.
That’s when you go in for the kill. That’s when the inner car salesman comes out to play and you have one shiny bright piece of shit on the playground you’re just dying to sell.
Wife, kids, house, car, dog... I just politely play along and nod my head.
And of course the humoring of what you’re saying only causes you to go even further: boat, clothes, land...
But when you say wife, I hear whores...
When you say kids, I hear an endless supply of PBR...
A dog to you is an ounce of dank to me.
You tell me I’ve just walked in on the American dream.
What many souls backstab and kill to get, I just waltzed right in on and joined the club without even so much as an initiation or password.
A car? Give me a fuckin old guitar that looks of pain and rejoicing engrained deep into the wood.
And what good is a working class man without his house and land??
But I’ll still be renting a shitty room in this shitty town with my pride intact.
Because your dream is to have all this shit, and all that stature. While you all spend money on your spoiled brats and your cheating wives, I’ll be waiting patiently like the finest of hunters.
Because our American dreams differ in the sense that you make money to piss it away on what the most entertaining Super Bowl ad sold you and I make money to smoke Camels, get fucked up and bide my time.
So hopefully one day I can get away from all this shit and live amongst those who are actually free, and home to those brave enough not to go with this crowd.
