At some point, our only crime was that we existed
In a place that made us too small
To a violent stampede of men.
Nowhere now does hell exist anymore
Without our consent;
At some point we will be remembered longer
Then we are known for—mutated;
Bound to the spine of a book that was supposed to mean affection.

Traces of a horse ranch asked me to give and take a little more
Because the end is near.
To go back to a time when I only have gotten your name,
That to me was the perfect victim.

Step on Congress's congratulations
And you are given an egotistical embryo
That wants to be held accountable.
And at some odd point up to Mount Olympus,
I realize that missing a home is a memory
That I have to endure its tarnishing's.

I am grasping the hundreds of women's bodies
Who want me to climb out onto solid ground
But pushed by the wind of men
Who clings onto horses that step on everything
Without a conscious intention.

I cry playing in a dollhouse draped in polonium,
But no one can hear me play
On plastic floors of a wife with 3 kids and a father who isn't home.

At some point, chem-trails brush over a coattail of a politician
And swelter feet into heels.