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The Mourning Sickness
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One Eighty Seven
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Sneaking in across the border         
Your money and your wealth
Do you think I came all this way         
Just for my mental health?
I do the things you will not do         
For less than minimum wage
Your promises that hard work pays         
Instead I'm made a slave

Shipped across the borderlands         
In the back of boss' bus
Work all night, work all day         
Do anything we must
Some pennies here, pennies there         
Perhaps we'll eat today
For centuries we've tilled these plains         
The food picked from our graves

All this land, stolen now         
But still we call it home
The children you hear screaming         
Born here, they are your own
To them today you punish us         
Stolen once again
The open sores are bleeding         
The salt you rub it in


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