in tune with a sony compact
trippin' martians on some busted leather
eyes nearly closed to the site of a homeless icon
not to be proud of, but the height of poverty
even with 2 hits of sid repressing my mind
i can tell he is lonely, i can sense it...
in his crimson optics, and his absent folicles
dirt smudged on the tip of his nose
just screaming to be bathed and clensed
what kind of mortal would i be to not aid a fellow one
that has been cornered in a station of solitude
sleeping on a metro bench, drowning in his own regrets
bewailing to the lack of a degree
a single noun, has recieved the loyalness
this blue, mangled metro bench...
that this man has been leaking to
all of his regrets are known to this bench
for it has sponged in the years of weep
and comforted a lost cause, in a world of monstrosity
my mind has altered to the lady across
too busy to notice, or to care...
glued to a cell phone, the digital world consumed her
and tore her arms and legs of the pedistal of humanity
mankind is to active to give a shit about him
even under the influence, i manage to deal
times up, as i arrived to the station
by the raspy voice on the loudspeaker
i take one last look at this man, still in the same position
and that littered ego of a woman shouts
WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT?
.
.
i guess it was just the drugs.