...How can I be me and not know myself,
be so selfish and hide it all so well
til not even I can tell what's inside
until like oil in water is raises itself out.
Pulled up to a stoplight and a woman walked by
with two bags, sweat pants, and a cardboard sign
that caught my eye:
pregnant, homeless, please help, God Bless.
I had dollars in my wallet that I didn't need,
but it wasn't greed that demotivated me you see.
Even standing here now I don't understand
why I didn't take the bills out, press them in her hand.
"Please take these ma'am.
I just want to help any way that I can."
Instead I sat, window down, slight frown,
with a soft breeze rustling my hair around,
arm leaning out the window: hand tapping, Meth rapping
and eyes locked on the woman to see what was happening.
That's it. She walked. I drove past.
Wallet said Bad Motherfucker, but I just felt bad.

Chorus:
Sir, can you help me please?
There are a few things I need.
I've got hungry mouths to feed.
Sir, could you just help me please?

Now I sit here and I wonder why
with this pen and this page and this scotch as my guide.
Am I a terrible man? Just evil touched in the head
with a good plan that always gets awry in the end.
Or is it something darker, sinister and awful
integral to me that will always be a part of
the man that you're looking at. It's there staring back.
Waiting for the prime time to quit lurking and attack.
All through history, these virtuous people
have had the strength to combat this evil:
this cowardice I revel in, sinful and malevolent.
Waiting to forsake my godforsaken brethren.
If I had been the one to meet the lady by the well,
would I have had the strength to offer my help?
Or would I just fail and damn my whole town to hell.
No food, no water, no harvest, no farming.
Everyone suffers because I'm never strong enough
to help a woman who seemed so weak.
Yet powerful enough to curse us so we couldn't grow weeds.
Is this the man my father raised?
Am I the man my mother praised?
So callous and heartless that I saw a need and I drove away.

Chorus

The scary part is I haven't learned from this.
I'm convinced that I'd still just repeat my offense.
And was it offense? Am I the one to blame?
Am I the one who stripped the woman down to her name?
So I do nothing for the least of these people,
does it make me neutral or does it make me evil?
And where does it stop? Does my obligation end?
Or do I give until I'm dry and completely spent?
Some say yes. Others say no.
Until my brain is twisted and about to explode.
I can't be my compass. I'm too bent.
Soul's sour; brain's dead; heart's too rent.
Cleaved in two. Who knew this stew
could stir inside a guy til it just blew
up out through the roof of his mouth
and spilled on a page his thoughts confused.