I stand inside your
halls of dirt and wonder
at the processes which
bring me here

All the cash is gone
three states away and
yet, here I stand, among
hollowed pockets in these
unhallowed halls of dirt

the stench is thick but
I cover my face with
a fresh, clean T-shirt
(poly-cotton blend)
as I stand in your lines
and I count the ways
that every fucking dime
I leave with you could
drop so easily in a Coinstar
machine, or slide quite
neatly in to my piggy bank

But no,
you’ll take care
of the banking
for me

Here in your halls of
dirt, I stand and wonder,
but I smile. After unfolding
bills and signing paper
I will go back to my shitty car
and drive it to a basement show
and then I’ll play some guitar
and you know, you can’t
charge me in guitars. The rest
is only money. Dig deep
the pit you put it in,
here in your halls of dirt