The sons of the poor

We are the sons of the poor
We have nothing but ourselves to count
And we're in a romance with the grave
But we believe in shit they say

We suffer from cruel hunger
And never have what we want
And yet we're happy
But broken by the system

We swallow your products
And we don't even think about it
We almost never think
So you're free to create our disgrace

We just need to identify with each other
And the disgrace is not spotted
You know, in the bleak of september
Nothing better than someone creating adventures

But we have heads full of shit
We're disposable and unloved
Our hearts don't even exist
They were crashed into tiny little pieces

Through time we learned bad things
We smoke and drink
Although we cannot have it whenever we want
Because we are the sons of the poor

baaaah

Spook on babe, honey. Big, big, big, that big river! Besides the suicidal thoughts, I live well. The people here drink lots of beer, they are crazy. Bring me the water. Bunch of nonsense! I had nothing to say, babe. And nothing makes sense, as always. Very, very crazy. Drink some poison to die. I wish I could. There's no right or wrong, there's me and you.