Barcelona

I’m haunted by the children of rich men,
Meandering like spectres all to the sound of their irrelevance.
While you’re at ease with the sleep I am missing,
They’re hounding me with their unfinished business,
Like cures for diseases, I’ll leave when this house is clear.
I’ll go on and on.

If our talk is small, then lets not speak,
What a privileged friend you had in me,
But when something’s wrong, something’s wrong.
In a hail of slurs that you dared not say,
That you let build up, you were raised that way
When something’s wrong, something’s wrong.

I’m at peace with the sound of my lost years,
Northern boys with Southern drawls at a loss for words with a wealth of resources.
It’s cut, not run. Would you swim while I’m sinking?
But swim you did, while I clawed at the surface,
“I know what my worth is”, you’d think after all this.

We collect and dispose when it came to the blows,
Looking back we never returned,
We were joined at the hip with a swing and a miss,
At the best we were braced for the worst.

You drew a line, you picked your side,
Then you and I were at our end with Barcelona.

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