Ain’t No Cure for This Ill

Man has walked on the moon,
Yet we can’t cure the sickness of the spoon.
We live in a society that thinks fixing our ills-
Is hidden in the magic of all sorts of little pills.
If you are tired, cold, hungry or depressed –
Grab some liquid courage, to get those feelings repressed.
I see broken souls walking the streets, with hollow eyes.
I wonder how they survive?
Thieving, dealing or lies?
The cold rolls in off of our shore, heavy with dew-
And I wonder how them,
That lives in the river-bottom will do?
I see folks lined up for hot showers and the free hot meals,
And some that come for free legal aid, brought to them in a van on wheels.
My heart goes out to them, hell, it damn near breaks.
That could have been me if I did not stop all my mistakes.
Mistakes of trusting men, instead of my higher power;
Mistakes of thinking a dishonest life would buy me my ivory tower;
Mistakes of stuffing my feelings down deep inside,
When I would have been better off if I had just cried.
Mistakes of thinking numbing pain,
Was better than dealing with it.
Thinking I had reasons to be like that, cuz I used to get hit.
Yeah, that could have been me, when my friend died out in the cold.
Too many Xanex bars and a bottle of that old tequila gold;
He curled up to go to sleep and breathed his last breath,
And freed himself from the pain, by finally embracing his death.
There’s been others and just as horrible and lonely of deaths,
And there will be more who figure that’s the way to clear their debts.
That could have been me if I kept going that way down the hill.
That could be me checking out tonight, cuz of one too many a pill.

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