I’ve seen a man too lame to stand.
A strong man to weak to take my hand.
Bridges, boxes, and dogs,
dodging, sleeping and grinding the cogs.
I’ve seen the hair to fucked to comb,
I’ve seen the man, talking alone.
Carts, crates, and water,
Fathers, mothers, sons and daughters.
This man, arms to the sun
This man, no name, no gun.
This man, he’s the prophet’s voice, make the choice,
This man, making the best of misery.
What have I done, how far he’s come?
Sell me something, before the light is done.
Oranges, flowers, and beans,
Selling, begging and paid to bleed.
Where has he gone this man I know.
First and last time I’ve see his show.
Bullets, bats, and knives,
Running, hiding, saving no lives.
That man, iconic eyes to the ground.
That man, ironic smiles all around.
That man, he’s the martyr’s muse, forced to choose,
That man, making the best of daylight’s love.