in the rain we wait
not for the seasons coming growth
but for commissary, prison store
to reap what we sow
and there are but three windows
not to peep, peak, or peer
but to serve with haste the demand
as the rain grows the line into jeers
as the time draws near
and the door finally pops open
we are stopped, hearing the pride-stunting yells of “one at a time!”
wet and damped hours we camped, all just to be chosen
“that ain’t right!” “they wrong for this!”
yea, we all know it
but such is power to the powerless
and hope to the hopeless
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