The order of lawyers and doctors
For me that was not offered
It did not happen often
In the place from which I lofted
No rinse of soup in the saucer
No princely sum for the pauper
No pence to bolster the coffers
No frankincense or copper
Those over-schooled apostles
Going back and never stopping
I left with little conscience
And never thought of losses
The class is always spotless
Like the class that gave them options
The past is not forgotten
The master plays opossum
My fixtures and my faucets
They are twisted, they are rotten
Make the mixtures in the pots
And sell the tincture in the boxes
Here I drink a couple shots
I’m sat adjacent to the slots
The greying man, he slinks and drops
And prays and prays for his jackpots
The leather jacket asks me “Stop!”
Whenever I am on my block
He has some words, he wrote his thoughts
The book that holds them, he forgot
When he gets hassled by the cops
You slowly turn your back and walk
I bring my bottles to the shop
You bring your snacks back to your loft
Whenever starved and understocked
I think of mama and my pops
Just like my mother and my father
Not a lawyer or a doctor