11 Pesos
November 30th, 1999 (Poetry)Got up this morning To the sound of sirens
To my left are my fifteen brothers
By brothers I mean others from Mexico
We’ve lived together these four years
In this tiny apartment complex
But we don’t care because we make…
Chorus:
Eleven. Eleven. Eleven. Pesos to each dollar we make
Eleven. Eleven. Eleven. Those pesos add up so fast.
They will make us kings when we travel back to Mexico.
Yesterday I cut my hand
On three knives as I was washing the dishes
Rob got his toe sliced off by the weed-wacker last year
It doesn’t really matter that we all took American names
To the government, we never existed
But that doesn’t matter because we make…
