A poor man's Blues.

It doesn't matter in the end, the work you put in, the energy you waste on becoming someone else. The futile struggle of climbing life's social ladder is always in vain. After thirtytwo hours of lifting steel beams and screwing shelves together, I still don't have a dollar to my name. I reckon this is life, it's just this impossible steep to walk, you are really making an effort to reach the top, but the valleys inbetween just get deeper and deeper. And in the end, it's just another weekend you spend burning all your savings on shallow distractions.

But this is the New California, the promised land of dreamers and social rejects. If you stand on a crowded street long enough, you can hear the brewing of suppressed rebellion in the near future. People want so much here, they have realistic dreams to follow. A path they chose a long time ago and still walk, because you have to be young and stupid to become old and wise some day. I reckon by the end of my charmic trial I will rise up to my occations and I will create something for myself.

I don't wanna be standing alone and poor, in the end of my days thinking:

"Is there something more to life!?"