Fire Sale

You got a Jesus Christ pose scrawled across your heart.
Messianic complex of which I want no part.
Dealing away all that’s not nailed to the floor.
Tunnel visioned on achieving an ever greater score.
With an eye devoid of detail.
Everything is free to be sold at retail.
No item to be held in posterity.
After all what is not yours has no sentimentality.

Fire sale your way to the top of the mountain.
All so you can keep on counting.

Precious jewels only have value in auction.
A point of view I see as abortion.
No sense for history to be preserved.
These objects, like people, exist only to serve.

Fire sale your way to the top of the mountain.
Bodies, like money, are only good for counting.