Eastwardly the raspberry bush grows
Anchored, down in the grass with twelve counters
Each day one disappears, taken on travels of mysterious places
I tie my shoelaces, and think of the races
Perfect metaphors for the capitalist people, watching it
The system hits them and as hard, clasping the crop in its hand
The raspberry bush grows nearby, sticking thorns into those taking coins
How many metaphors can you stand? I’m just here, watching the grass and hoping you can know.
