a crooked smoke

all of our days come down to this
we aren't the ones who know the score
we're stuck with all the hate of yore
but cannot fathom why they hiss
we'd rather give the fame a miss
but know that we are at the fore
the price of power is blood and gore
the scent of money's shit and piss
we pay the cost of scrum and ruck
with gladness for they're other lives
and we would make our children glad
we'll rig the odds and call it luck
while setting forth on jaunty drives
there's no good reason to be sad
what they call justice is a passing fad
we are determined and we're not stuck
let other folk sweat and break out in hives
what we have done would drive a human mad
there's nothing in the tears of grieving wives
we're powerful and we don't give a fuck
whether you live are wounded or just die
means less to us than our most sacred lie