Some kind of disaster relief

My, my, my, what a position:
The love of my life smoking crack in the kitchen.
Lovely long nails and a nasty half grin:
"It's a livin'," she shrugs.
It's a missile disguised as an ethic.
It's a rabbit suffocating in a rabbit hole.
It's politics as usual.

Some kind of disaster relief.

Honest homes,
simple words,
and honest hopes
are like skipping stones.

You can tell that things are getting terribly real
when the suckers in charge don't even gotta lie to the people.
And the only megaphone left working is attached to a steeple.
It's a concrete national forest.
It's a kid with a gun at the age of 10.
It's like the last dying gasp of a friend.

Some kind of disaster relief.