All these bright stars over warehouses
- and whilst most of it’s true -
But there's trams trailing out
to the suburbs where the youths
Sit there quietly, but making noise
of which most of it's not heard
but for the essential election of rot
Now with pay grades that don't differ
as the backslaps are laid thick
my chip tightens it's grip deeper
to the point where it's fixed
on some boots tied rather tight
making marks all on the porch
the flagship placement of rot
Out of pockets, strives and share houses
The twitching hand lunges to mouth
They were much bigger, and on the uptake,
It's evenly split,
in the south.
Now we're lonely. Oh so lonely
where the troops that gather thick
We're further from the familiar
ten ounces in the sticks
Reading all the same papers
but so much further from the side
Where you face, and your name are lost.
Head on to windy, windening streets where old nature
pines for realpolitik
Now my townie eyes are aching
like a virgin candle stick
Though each footstep lands the same
now the sidewalk yells in chalk:
"I want it all, but I have nothing, so perhaps now it's time that we should talk"
