I'm less your fairy, more your Pharoah, a fairness you're told to cherish, not rule with requests
And I'm not about suffering or come-up cars' passengers or leaving Harlem for my mightiest harem
either
This is not the House of the Rising Sun,
not ethereal, cause it not even is at all
I've been spared, but not left, over there, or in the trunk or in the ivy-palm, I have been to where the only winter is a misinterpretation of burn and when I went far enough for it to no longer hurt but not far enough for it to turn good, there you were, at the arch of that pitiful equation counting the sand by binary code (numb, numberless), then the canaries showed up too. One, one, one and one and one and one and crying from the front of an asphyxiation....this must be the new money, the drumbeat I confused with lust, duty, and that lady, that one, that one, (who shakes your recognition) that one, I tried to trade
for a kite and the air refused like refuge like it won't accept hiding for freedom (who am I?) Where am I from, again?
