Rich Men Die Just Like Poor Men Do

There’s blood on your hands

Always fresh and never dries…

It’s not from your own wounds,

It’s from every child who dies

From your merciless destruction

Of countries you’ve never been inside.

From all the times your dirty hands,

Made girls and women cry.

/

Greenbacks don’t soak up blood…

Stocks and bonds don’t staunch the flow.

You can’t buy back the people’s love…

When they know how low you would go.

Money won’t wipe the blood clean…

A bag of coins won’t erase the truth.

Money doesn’t make you a fucking king.

Rich men die just like poor men do.

/

Your designer suits are not bulletproof…

No dry cleaning will get the blood off the sleeves.

You can hide your stature with some lifts in your shoes…

But Hell’s pulling you down further every week.

Gold isn’t worth a fucking thing in a war…

In a way, it’s the perfect metaphor…

Because you think you’re a golden, unbeatable sword…

But you’ll break under the slightest bit of fighting force.

/

Greenbacks don’t soak up blood…

Stocks and bonds don’t staunch the flow.

You can’t buy back the people’s love…

When they know how low you would go.

Money won’t wipe the blood clean…

A bag of coins won’t erase the truth.

Money doesn’t make you a fucking king.

Rich men die just like poor men do.

/

People forget that Rome still fell…

The Berlin Wall was broken down as well.

Hitler and his cronies offed themselves…

Here’s hoping you end up dead in a cell.

/

Greenbacks don’t soak up blood…

Stocks and bonds don’t staunch the flow.

You can’t buy back the people’s love…

When they know how low you would go.

Money won’t wipe the blood clean…

A bag of coins won’t erase the truth.

Money doesn’t make you a fucking king.

Rich men die just like poor men do.