finely polished leather boots and tightly woven italian suits

suite this man and his pristine neatness as his rifle shoots

down all the beggars and the strikers and the scabs that turn away

at the sight of the picketer's crimson blood concrete stains

oh there's a flow of tears the scabs can't help to contain

broken glass, rusty nails, add to the hemopheliacs constant pain

and the soul of the former freight hopper leaks down the drain

he's mercury and salt in a solution, a puddle of flame soaking in disillusion