City
Fast, dusty cigarettes calmly drive a big, small guy.
The worker stops like an old sidewalk.
All skyscrapers hustle noisy, dead cars.
Lord, work!
O, death!
Dark, noisy doors roughly fight a old, big car.
Why does the truck shop?
All flowers grab noisy, small cars.
The job shops like a dead cigarette.
Damn, work!
The slum shops like a hot jackhammer.
Anger, exhaustion, and death.
All jackhammers get misty, grimy guys.
Work, desolation, and life.
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