Originality Sings of Poverty

Images spit rhythm into the eyes
Of slow minds and fast dimes,
Living like a pharaoh under diamond temples,
They cackle, unaware of truth, bleeding.

The machine is leaking oil, screaming for help,
Desperation sinks its claws into flesh,
They are tools to put this beast to rest,
Yet they tighten the noose around their necks.

Pinstripe mountains smoke Cuban cigars,
Chained to the earth by golden tokens,
They turn the crank on the monkey box,
And watch them play their music with ivory ignorance.

Oblivious to those shadowed underground,
Their roots have perished, rotting,
For they left their heart and soul to subsist,
But within the industry art cannot exist.