To the tune of a sad blues song,
minus the words that tag along;
The air is stiffer than a two by four,
the only smiles come from the poor;
A thousand cars pass through the streets,
a hurried citys faint heart beats;
The sun sweats, the clouds shake,
the ocean pushes wave after wave;
No one toils hard enough for good enough,
its good enough for them;
Are they for real, these urchins washed into the city,
from the depths of sin, to seek pity?
Here they are, these people, for real,
they only care about them.
