18 March 2007


we find ourselves in a sort of urban hell
of factories and smokestacks and red lights
more smoky and sullen in the nights
we wonder what these people have to sell
the noise and shadows a dull story tell
meanwhile they're not announcing flights
you have to guess and you have no rights
it's almost as if there were a wicked spell
never in time and never in proper place
the signs contain no messages we need
the crowd sits sullenly and does not speak
this is another stage in the long rat race
none would move a muscle if you bleed
but swiftly would trample over the meek

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