Last at the Table

Preacher won’t you preach to me
I need a pint of philosophy
I’m hurt and thirsty, set me on my way
Mondays come and Mondays go
But this one seems to be sort of slow
Can you tell me sir, when will there come a change?
I’m the one who’s last at the table
I’m the one who never gets the gold
You’re the one who says I’m able
But you turn your words with lies and fables…
Mothers won’t you cry for me
I’ll sell your tears for a token fee
On a street corner where drunk patrons stand laughing
And they’ll stop, they’ll stare at me
Scratch at their heads, «How can this be?»
I’ll say, «I was born like you, --
«then I’ll startin dancin'…
Hello, Mr. Bureaucrat
You pick who’s thin -- you pick who’s fat
Now what makes you so fit for the shoes you walk in?
In an office space you get a taste
For paper money and paper waste
Now who gets what depends on who is talking…