Let the trashers trash it out somewhere else, there ain't no camping here. Clear out those tents, get a room, get going. Beggars over there, out of the street, you're a hazard. Go knock on the church door, or city hall, or some other institution, but there ain't no camping here. Get going.
This is the southern war, our battle royale, our Alamo. No telling the blood already on the streets, no telling the killing already done, no telling what's next, we're already in the soup, we're being stirred. Our leaders are leading us into the line of fire. We've been abandoned. Left for dead.
The mops and slicksters are devouring the milk and honey. Gluttony on an international scale, feeding themselves like frenzied flies, shitting wherever they land. Like common bandits and robbers. Heap your pigment shame upon the heap of pigment bullshit already heaped. No one cares.
