My Dream Lies Stale

I count money, coins to be precise,
Yes, thats part of what I always dreamt
As a kid, three years old,
With dat dreams of holding cash,
Dreams that looked so real,
But still lie stale.

Walking with tapping shoes
In a scarlet tie to the colar so white,
With a clothing that knew iron.

But I say my dreams lie stale
Not dead, just stale
I count coins from men's sweat
After fighting in the streets so wild,
To cheers and jeers flying high,
With bloody sweat-quenching the earth
And the thirst of the gangs.

Yes, I count coins,
From the holey pockets of slum dwellers
From the rotten purses of sullen faces,
From heavy minds relieved by the fights
But
I still count coins; bet on men's lives,
My dream lies stale.