Recorded February 2021, at home, in the basement. Bass recorded January 2022.
lyrics
It's hard to believe anything was ever made here,
things existing outside paper, in our fragile history.
You have to grit your teeth as we kill the world with toxins,
to make our busy boxes, in eastern factories.
The most wealth the world has seen, and it's all from collecting rents
on property, and defense, our right to rule worldwide.
Don't have something we want, or we'll rub your nose in gravel,
you'll pay us for our travels, because such is our right.
Cut with the pen, not with the saber;
Two dollars for a bushel of your fruits of labor.
I'm a number, in a box, working on boxes and numbers;
the handymen and plumbers don't stare all day at screens.
Sometimes they're elbow-deep in toilets or in waste bins;
I recoiled when I faced it: they have the hands more clean.
Gilded tower to gilded tower, the lunch orders are processed.
Don't think what goes in the sausage, how the startups take their haul.
On their feet for a dozen hours, the immigrant chefs get their fraction,
reduced by my own actions, cuz I wouldn't place one call.
Cut with the pen, not with the saber;
Two dollars for a bushel of your fruits of labor.
Low-wagers here, and peons global,
Grit in the shoes that keeps capital mobile.
Calvaluna + another songwriter and performer. Check out Candy Necklace for more home-recorded indie rock, singer-songwriter, punk, and soul stuff. Calvaluna
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