The price of creativity places our souls into debt
Crumbled paper and useless thoughts scattered
Around the trash can, on the floor
And into the dirty and dusty recesses of my mind
But a spiritual loan comes with a high interest rate
To leave me further shelling out more and more of my self-worth
Yen dont purchase friends and dinero wont make you a hero
The almighty American Dollar cannot suffice as a scholar
So borrowed thoughts only exceed my cost of living
Seeking to pay back what I owe to my heart
While my mind provides the wages
The writing on the wall serves as my labor
As I collect the PENsion
And if I pull a brain muscle...
Whats suitable work minds compensation
For a mind that no longer works?
And at the age of 65 when all these memories have survived
I will live on a well built-up social consciouness security
