Night falls and the lights come on,
Overlooking the bay.
It's so peaceful.
And the machine screams to scald the milk,
How many children were sacrificed to the pretty lights,
So that we could sip it extra hot,
On a sleepy morning,
With nothing to worry about,
Except where to meet our friends for lunch?
But, our roads are paved with the black blood of the dying,
That we drive over on the way to work,
Where we lead them to the altar of our want,
Never mind that they're not mindless,
They think much as you or I,
Only we don't think about that,
Because to think is to feel,
And to feel is to act,
And we have only two options,
To correct the wrongs of our ancestors,
And break the turning wheels of our collective indifference,
Which is the easier way,
To go back to sipping our lattes,
And not worry about anything that might change us.
How hot would they have to be,
To make us forget their price?
We scald our tongues and call it good,
But that kind of pain's not enough raise the dead.
And lest you claim the pot and the kettle,
I tell you that I am aware of my sin.
Though I partake not of a morning brew,
I won't give it up to live on the streets,
For I have been given the softer life,
And though my net debt is a degree and a half higher than my net worth,
I can still claim the world's ten percent,
So what do I know?
I know my food is cheap,
And my water's clean,
And I like it extra hot in my jasmine green.
I am but a single spoke of the wheel,
But I exert my force,
To keep it going,
And I have to ask,
Is it a choice?
Because there's always a choice.
Or at least the illusion of one,
And if we could imagine hard enough,
That our choices could be different,
Then maybe one day,
They could be,
And we would recognize the pleasure of the wheel for what it really is,
A song of pain,
Not only for the unfortunate ground beneath it's relentless turn,
But for the spokes,
Bathed in water,
That could never be hot enough.