End Of A Year Annandale
The box of frayed ends.
The talk of group sex.
Bent cocks for bruised hands.
Please, let's all stay repressed.
This place is too much for me,
I've learned so much already.
The kids they talk, and the kids they keep talking.
They treat the grounds people like bags of cold shit
while hanging banners for workers' rights.
So much direction, but no follow-through.
A mountain of cocaine bury papers past-due.
I took a class this semester,
Socialism in the name.
Here's what I learned:
"All people are the same,
the workers of the world await their savior-
someone who doesn't know a shovel but has a killer GPA."
I actually choose to be here.
I pay for the chance.
But it would better serve my future if I robbed a f..cking bank.
Call me a cynic, but frankly I don't get it.
They tell me this matters. They say it's a leg up.
They say it's about options, but maybe not for me.
And the only legs I see are drunk on $2 Cups.
Came here for the learning, stayed here for the boring.
Stay here for some reason... maybe a sense of privilege?
Over-privileged, yes. Student. Student.
