Who has the time to make up lies Day after day Of having your space invaded Your homes barged into by strangers with guns The best of them leaving you alive after They’re done With their operation, the laughter Mocking your indignities As if each indignity weren’t mockery enough Day after day Rifles shoved in your face That’s a good day The smell of spent cartridges mixes poorly with insults Shoot to cripple! Checkpoints like gates to hell From hell to hell But if you dive, you gain the memory of hitting asphalt As you bleed to death Day after day Of crying at funerals That often become cause for more funerals For some dead may not be mourned, they say Someone said there’s no PTSD beacuse the trauma has no post No post left standing to lean on And then when the infection climaxes in a festering boil It bursts and the pus flows And that pathetic inflammatory response Begets a brand of cowardice only the coward knows So, who has the time to make up lies When they can barely stay alive