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Sure
Prescription pills, stomach ills, and midnight chills.
We have become the carriers of our
Own burden.
Heroin wet dreams
Of heroin children
In heroin trees.
Born of these diseases and gestating
Within the soil,
We are the people that whimper.
Cockroaches of generation Rx.
The Bush bombs bury our serene
Surroundings until all that’s left is the
Sinner.
And we hold our titles with sick pride
For we have survived the breaking of the world.
A sad event it is, but necessary.
