Taking up my post. Desertion means the noose and all that.
The worst thing the watchman can do is stop watching.
Just yell if something kills you, that’s all that it asked of you.
But I’ve been screaming since childhood knee scrapes.

Mom why can’t we, why don’t we, what’s different about us?
Turns out its what’s in your father’s pocket is all that matters.
We come from a long line of broke fathers.
Here son, my sword. Passed down and down and never up.

With a short and narrow path set, sprint.
To crash and burn long before reaching the wall.
Maybe one of us will hit that wall one day so hard we break through.
But more likely our collective wreckage will block the way entire.

Those with clear, well maintained, high ways and their luxury race car beds,
let them reach new heights and speeds and leave us far behind.
I can’t even die trying. Trying would mean leaving my poor post.
All I’ve got to do is yell before I am killed.