The Rolling Stone

My hands are rested,
My palms are starving,
If I wasn’t so privileged
I’d search through garbage,
For a small sense
Of independent though it,
Wouldn’t make little difference
To what I thought and saw,

Myself on the street,
I thought of the man I want to meet
And how we'd talk about nothing
Till we're off the street and back on our feet
Making our way from hell to earth
Our bodies broken and full of dirt,

Lucky my mind is still where it should be
In my head and not in my pants,
Yet when I saw her I knew we had to dance
With the jester looking on, he hatched a plan
To break my new found love with devils words
And imitations of love.

Alas my lover was too young
The jester confused her with his tongue
Till everything she felt for me was numb.

She left me and my world was spun
I thought my life was over, done.
Until my brothers made me have some fun
And my life took, flight my mission done.
The last concertos sung, my voice has rung,
Through the bellows of hell right up to the chelas of the sun,
If I am guilty of ignorance,
Reward me with violence,
If I have ever offended,
My apologies are silent.