Give the beggar your bus fare
And come straight walking home.
Follow the white city’s blackened maze of drains and come straight walking home.
On your way, you may lean on to a placarded wall, and scan its unseen art into your faulted soul, and you’ll think there never really were a truer story told.
You’ll sit with the dingy, dirty street rats on the cold iron railway tracks, but you’ve heard the wrong glory, so hear now this story, you’ll be surprised if only you knew, what fumes, what waste, what poison ran in our veins, all the while they pretended never to know.
We peopled this place with life and things for we had no where else to go. Beside a mountain of waste and poisonous gas, we lived our lives here through.
Though the mountain of waste lay mounting each day, we had nothing else we could do, so one fateful day, after an auspicious pray, we sat about reveling in a festive day, until it was overcome by rotting corpses, for, that mountain of waste went ‘BOOM’.
Listen. So the white city walls, and the white city houses,
the white city people and the white milk rice turned gray, black and blacker.
The white city sighs and the white city tears came tumbling upon this tragedy on New Year’s Day, and with life and vigor they helped,
Of course I could say, what an ironic play these white city people do wittingly (or otherwise) display.
I gave the beggar my bus fare and I’m walking straight home,
But my home that once stood on this blasted land lay crumbled all in all,
So I stand on the ruins among a blinding glare coming from the white city folk doing their share.