"Sometimes I feel like some sort of gold being.
I’m some sort of metal that only has purpose
When someone needs something.
People wouldn’t chase after me if it wasn’t for greed,
If it wasn’t for the purchasing of some sort of peace.
My hopes and dreams are put on display for all to see,
But under heat, they bend, they bleed.
Maybe you couldn’t tell, this was once beautiful.
It’s pure gold, just covered in black ink,
Covered in the charcoal colored remains of ashes
From the last time something burned me.
But baby, I can be something you need,
So bend me in that fire until I fit a shape
That can offer you some sort of utility."