The face of poverty, as willing subjects we all spectate your demise
You can wash away the filth but not the calluses
That keep the devils down beneath the status quo

Our sacred symbols are for you to use, before your face, we hang the gold

The face of poverty, with 60 seconds left your fame is slowly running scarce
You can wipe away the tears but not the images
That formed the mannequin behind the shattered glass

Our sacred forms beg you trust, before you face we hang your god