Darkened glowing spectacles,
Rush by in the lime light of fame,
Of fast paced success,
A caffeinated coffee in hand.
The burning sensation of competition,
And yet the smell utterly,
Like the one of a grungy cigarette butt.
Gangsters rolling their hands over money,
Saying sweetheart do you want some?
And you say that you’re too good,
A little too pretty for this dirty, broken city.
And so the gunshots flare,
Fireworks in the polluted misty sky.
Higher than the skyscrapers,
You once expected to share,
With a man who you now see on the street.
Run, run, run, and the taxis zoom by,
Knowing you do not wish
For a ride.