The Rich Pass By

“And I don’t know why they say grown men don’t cry”

The rich pass by, don’t bat an eye, Twenty-five, thirty-five, The others just get by, On the bus, eyes holding back tears, Some anger, some joy, boy oh boy.

In the city of dreams, Where wealth and poverty gleam, The rich ride in luxury, While the others struggle for free.

The rich have mansions and yachts, While the others live in squalid lots. The rich have fancy clothes and cars, While the others have to walk so far.

But the rich don’t see the others, They’re too busy counting their dollars. They don’t see the tears or the pain, They’re too busy living their own game.

But the others see the rich, And they can’t help but feel a twitch. They feel anger, they feel joy, They feel like a broken toy.

Anger at the injustice, Joy at the hope of one day being their accomplice. But for now, they just get by, On the bus, eyes holding back tears, Some anger, some joy, boy oh boy.

Boy oh boy, what a world.