If it’s money that’s you splunder,
then you really make me wonder,
Is it friends we are at all?
Or am I just a crying call
for a memory to hold
for your fear of the unknown.
For the ones you claim as mates,
Like trophies in a case
cared for recklessly at your disposal,
care no longer for your reproposal.
A dear friend needs your ear,
Perhaps two arms to hold then near,
But not pictures in frames
Or guilt trips and games.
Give to me your respect,
and I vow to honor it.
For then I shall know that the promises,
and the pleas for forgiveness,
mean more than just bullshit.