Papered Rooms and Bodies by Ben Nardolilli

How much could I be making,
Standing out in the world,
Not sitting in bed, or sleeping,
Eight hours I could be working,
Lunch too, and breakfast,
Idle luxuries,
No one grows rich by eating.
Do I really need shoes, maybe
I should wipe my hand with my ass,
Or use old calendars and phonebooks,
A waste of paper, water is free.
Money in the bank does nothing,
It has to race, find itself a home,
Some land, some people to work on it,
The bankers fondle my bills and coins,
They get all the pleasure of their company,
How can I stand and hold it back?
And why should be a bank myself,
Keep this blood in these same old veins,
Or the hair dangling in the scalp,
Cut it off for a wig store,
Drain my body dry,
I could make a killing.

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