No meaning, no measure, no minute of pleasure.
No witness, no willing, no wanting, no waiting.
No power, no place, no peace, no province.
No meaning, no measure, no minute to treasure.
They come upon us like a wave,
The call it fun, they call it play,
the do not know the bed they crud,
their first free fucks, paid for in blood.
After that they think they've learned
that within all of us a fire burns,
to be used and then tossed aside,
another notch on their freebie pride.
It's a lesson that we all must take,
that greed leaves contempt,
in it's wake.
Poems are made by fools like me,
but money is made by the patriarchy.