The Script and the Scale

The man on the corner, he’s a low-rent ghost,
Selling poison in plastic, a grim-faced host.
He’s got one product, one ladder to hell,
He doesn't have options, just a story to sell.
He’s a predator, sure, but he’s honest in dirt;
He never promised to heal where he meant to hurt.

But step through the glass where the air smells of pine,
Where the carpet is plush and the degrees are fine.
There’s a man in a coat with a gold-plated pen,
The head of a cartel that kills now and then.
He’s got the cure locked in a heavy steel drawer,
But there’s no residual income in "sick no more."

The ledger demands a perpetual ache,
A "maintenance" rhythm for the profit’s sake.

See, the street dealer's limited; his bag is just small,
But the doctor has access to the heights of it all.
He could give you the light, he could mend up the bone,
But he’s paid by the masters on a corporate throne.
The "Official Cartels" sign the checks and the laws,
Hiding the remedy inside a lion’s jaws.

If it works in a week, then the billing cycle dies.
If it fixes the soul, then the stock doesn't rise.
So they outlaw the plant and they bury the seed,
Replacing the harvest with a chemical greed.
They want you compliant, a slow-burning flame,
A lifetime of symptoms with a brand-new name.
They’ve commodified breath, they’ve patented pain,
Wringing the blood for a decimal gain.
The dealer on the corner? He’s just a small fry,
Compared to the suit watching "customers" die.
One sells you death in a desperate rush,
The other sells "management" in a velvet-lined hush.

Welcome to the ruins, the land of the fleeced,
Where the healer is simply the ghost of the beast.
God bless the profit, the pills, and the price;
In the Mismanaged States, you’re the sacrifice.