Whenever the sun comes up,
I can always hear people say,
"Come, come. Why don't we get to work!
Time is money."
It's back to the prison that they call work,
Among the black and white of life.
The women flaunt themselves around just like toys,
Thinking every man on the street should see them.
What they don't know.
What everyone doesn't know.
These times,
they're like the Dark Ages,
Everyone refusing to adjust to something new.
Fish don't belong in those stuffy cans on the shelf.
Brush strokes make them come alive.
I can make that happen,
I know I can.
Instead, I ought to be saying, "Off with their heads",
And chopping them up like they are logs.
Is it so glamorous to be a fish merchant,
As my parents tell me?
Does it have to be,
So that everyone must live a life,
Other than what they want, for themselves?
The desk,
The books,
The ink and paint,
It all sounds wonderful to me.
Who's to say that it can't be my life?
These times, oh, I am sorry.
There's always something to do,
Before we can be ourselves again.
Matchmaking between families is like a sport,
Each move must be exact, or it's a losing game.
Not every man needs a wife.
She would only tell me I was crazy,
For contemplating art, rather than her.
Everything I'll ever need is right in here.
No one knows that,
I don't think they'll ever understand that.
In these times, I am bound.
Forevermore.