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The Lowest of the Low
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The Sharpest Pain
A stain on the paper, this conditional hell
It sticks to its victim, s with no choice but to wear it well
The phony blue beatific cross
The never calculated lost
The public court's wired, so strike up the band
It; s the voice of a liar in a sound bite driven land
A smoke in mirrors alibi
The sharpest pain, the dullest knife
So there's no sun shing on Robson street
You've tipped your hat and escaped deafeat
And intent speaks louder than ink or pen
No, I'm not your fellow Canadian, John
I'd kill this fly with a hammer
And reposses the Angel's wings
A weak plot and tone
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is your so called epic poem
if the sentence flies
the verdict stings
So there's no sun shing on Robson street
You've tipped your hat and escaped deafeat
And intent speaks louder than ink or pen
No, I'm not your fellow Canadian, John
Thanks anyways
So there's no sun shing on Robson street
You've tipped your hat and escaped deafeat
And intent speaks louder than ink or pen
No, I'm not your fellow Canadian
No, I'm not your fellow Canadian
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