Busted

there is a junkie living within us all,

reaching out for one more fix,

the whole time wondering;

is this the big one,

the final overdose?

in the blackness of the night,

she comes searching,

a tired, old, washed-up hag,

staggering down broken

city streets,

hideously exposed,

pretentiously oblivious

to the madness surrounding her,

yet, her terror consumes you,

like some massive flood,

but you wear it well,

this cloak of respectability,

but somehow it is never enough,

as you attempt to hide

the dirty, filthy, little insect

lurking inside;

professional prosecutors

seek clean convictions,

in spite of innocence or guilt,

while corporate winds

rage unmercifully against

bullet proof glass;

so much living,

so little time;

you ain't gonna beat

this rap.

.

.