I told my bills to come tomorow
With poor tongues of faith,
Will i be met tomorrow?
My today is hanged on the tree of idleness.
My lungs cries of drought,
Rejecting the empty green bottles,
Should I beg the poor Lazarus for a drop
Or quench their thirst with their tears?
Beautiful buckets blabbing in tongues,
Pointing to the chastened dark sky,
Should I promise them a rain?
The way down the stream is slippery.
Caught in the middle,
A beef in a pie.