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Here's What You Find in Any Prison

de Flux of Pink Indians

The wind blows
The baby cries
People die
Deaths are untold
Land is desolate
Nothing here grows
People living
For the sight of a food bowl
Trapped in existence
It's hard to think
That such people really exist
Hard to believe
Their plight is accepted
When money so wasted could be re-directed
They're not some race that don't feel pain
Starvation is something you don't become immune to

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