We've worn the dollars down darker roads,
Till the fingers,
Fickle from hides, guides, and gauging,
Leave their motion with no notion of emotion.

Somebody fanciful, prancing and preaching their pride,
Stands as a figure left to malinger from their cloven eye,
Brooding with the word seen floating in their mind.
Should he wrinkle his brow at every rumple down darker roads?

Is he ranting of weathered hands?
Those of his and yours and theirs?
The insincere measures of whether they're man's?
No, I suppose they're relegated by blood of heirs.

We wear our past as particles of present,
As tomorrow through yesterday origins accredit.
Should another smother a child of a mother,
And stand as the other, a figure down darker roads?

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