Hairs in your face
hot air from their mouths and can you bare it
Up here where squares fill the skies
boring patterns in pie society
Walls are concrete and paint
buy a complaint
hair in your face moving along the paved way
concentrating on some of the small pains
Ambling like the street was all yours
Like the world wasn´t a platform for wars
thats the way i paint the day sometimes it drips onto my shoulder
Artists have every brush and ignore the color of complaint
because its grey as grey
wall after wall and problems that cause dismay
A hitch-hiker knows how to buck up
even after a hundred sarcastic windshields
I´ve no grievance to lay
as i turn the corner into the light of day
creating the Picture as if i was the painter
leaving behind those walls and complaints so deeply grey
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