Plight - Minutemen

His face is young

His hands are old

The past is empty

Blind and cold

(A ton of sand at my feet

Each a speck in a space

All collecting in a mass

Pressure changing its shape

Its direction, its purpose)

All the sweat

On his back

Grabs the dirt

It stains his shirt

(As the sea tears it away from the land

More is pushed back

Each different

Each separate)

Push all day

He rests at night

Do some hobbies

Drink to forget

(All has changed and nothing has changed

When the momentum stops, the machine will die

For some reason we’re not alone)