City's Malady

Take us into the folds of your tattered skirt – O mother, whose gap-toothed children buried in smog reeking of mirth carry stones in their chest like men. O mother, whose gap-toothed children hiding hearts scalded by your warm concrete Carry stones in their chest like men - cloak our bodies even with the bitterest tears. Hiding hearts scalded by your warm concrete Mother, will your children still remember how you cloak our bodies even with the bitterest tears as dark fumes taint your pure laughter O mother, we are testaments to your decay so take us into the folds of your tattered skirt, and rot with us in our shared tomb of ashen gray buried in smog, reeking of mirth.