A penny for your thoughts?
Or a cross for your back!
Either way there’s always a cost
The weight of truth, in a world of black

A whipping boy?
Or the drunk in the gutter
Either way they all suffer
For the words they can’t utter

The silent philosopher?
Or the outspoken fool
Either voices are lost
To give way to the cruel

The picture sells in volumes
But is seldom ever felt
All the emotion of the artist
Lost to apathy in the palette dealt

The pen may be present
But the paper is thin
The blood drying quickly
Then it’s burnable again

With voices as whispers
Anything more and they will fade
The silent cartographers struggle
Seeking change to the world charade

We open the book of life
Only to find the pages torn out
Already politically incorrect
To the lying pen of the devout

A penny for my thoughts?
That depends on what’s the tax
If it’s silence your really looking for
You won’t ever have enough wood for our backs!

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