First World Prophet
They sell us a closet and call it a suite,
With views of the garbage that rots on the street.
The "sun-drenched" appeal is a bulb in the hall,
And "charming" just means that the ceiling might fall.
We barter our heartbeats for four plaster walls,
Ignoring the unknown collector who calls.
The ledger is hungry, the paycheck is thin,
A game where the tenants are unable to win.
So listen to prophets with gloves on their hands,
Who shouted the truth to the deaf, city lands.
It echoes in hallways where dreams go to die:
The rent is, frankly, too damn high.
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