"this street" "this street" "this street"
is that all you can say

as we make our way past the stalls of crooked men
and fumbling mutes
groping for the book
in which they hid
the blueprints for escape

this street, these times, this life
is that all you can mutter
as we round the corners of this stink
and pay our way into the concert halls,
rubbing flesh with well worn hands
and breaking bread
with bloody thieves
who would rather fuck than sing
who rape the city
not in conquest,
not in need,
but as demonstration of dominion
over every living thing

the books are full of sour spit
don't waste my time
with passion