I look up from the phone wher I argue

My pitiful pleas for help, just for one chance

Needing something, anything to drop some life

Into my hand to let me live

But Mr. Operator tells me he can't do anything

Else by talking to me, he hangs up the phone

All everyone want in my world is money

To think, to see, to dream, to believe

Because our black books, cold from idleness in desk drawers

Cannot give us back our humanity

No abstract dream can become concrete reality

No hope and faith can turn into certainty

Without that thin piece of paper telling us that

The man has fainlly under-paid us our over-working dues

Yet the child in hunger still waits in line

The woman heavy with child prays for sanctuary

The man without a home still shivers in the cold

And the only thing on my mind is what to do

To hustle and live my life

Free in paper chains.