I rummaged the long pages of light
From the wigs, I asked
That it exists, I found
But its balance was law-st.

Man, forty-five — to twenty years with labour;
Man, forty-five — to pay twenty million for freedom.
Same wrong, same court!
But, who am I to talk?
I'm just a poet.

When the sons of the father
At broad daylight, spill some red on our white
It's just a drop of ketchup
You see those without a father,
Let them take only a walk in the night
It's already a "hands up!"
But, who am I to talk?
I'm just a poet.

One day, maybe one day
You would wake up
And find the mouth that hums the law-st balance
Silenced by the noise of crispy new notes
Or the holiness of a police van, maybe.

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