These streets where named
after people who loved like the mad
but never went insane
who used to reign
the black market for poetry
on the smell of burned rubber and change
But you don’t really care for the small battles do you?
Though the bottle next to you
holds a gun to your head as it claims that it loves you, dear,
and that you’re are heading for a place where

The faceless queens of boredom
and the lambs disguised as lions do roam
where you can hear the same mantra on every corner:
“I might be hopeless, but hopeful,
and that’s just the way I am”.

Yes, these streets where named
after people who bullrushed
straight into the face of pain.
The ones who gave name
to the taste of blood
and the dry paths through the hardest of rains.
But you don’t really care for legends do you?
Though the bottle next to you
ain’t the God that made you,
and remember that, my friend,
as you’re heading for the place where

The faceless queens of boredom
and the lambs disguised as lions do roam
where you can hear the same mantra on every corner:
“I might be hopeless, but hopeful,
and that’s just the way I am”.