Navy blue collar gave way
To baby blue collar high rise;
Joe the bum, always earning with a joke
Got killed in a stroller drive-by;
My grease spot's now gluten-free
And there's no pork to go on my rye
I'd tell 'em all to go to hell
If I thought it'd make it right.
If I thought it'd make it right,
I'd scream from my lungs,
Paint the streets with my rage
Dark crimson mentality
Flowing
Trickle to stream
To flooding history
Life;
And therein lies the problem
This metamorphosis is
Life
Constant as the minutes before
And those which are to be born
Of that exact need to survive
Which surrounds all we know to exist.
The feeding
Gorging
Purging;
Digestion is the synopsis of this and other places;
Here
It just goes a little faster.
The metropolitan vessel churns
Lubricated by the change it's masses bring
Hurling themselves upon it's gears
In an attempt to belong to the current pace of things
Which tomorrow, shall be relegated only
To memory.
©2014clarencecbess
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