Erroneously the mountain rumbled
And down it came a worthy disaster.
Seated like a crumpled heap on the floor
Mourning the loss of decency and good daughters.

There where the weather was fine and the market moved
In the open bazaars for the people to shine the shoes,
He moved too, like a gazelle and shopped for twos
On a cigarette that needed a companion every now and then.

Like a Zen man and one with a planned route
To fall on Good Friday after doing a reboot –
Back in a time when nothing was real
And men wanted things more than cells that could heal.

Such was the Djjin in the evenings’ on the earth
Where the muscle man knew carpet capers
And the noise of the dowsing was such as no Sky Scrapers.
City Scape? City Scape, they said to me
As thy will be done through the darkest times,

The holiest hours and somewhat confused in rhyme
About the images protruded from my eyes
And how the movies made miracles from history.
Something for then and something for now
Where the commuter is allowed the raciest thing:
Like a honour story where the audience sing
About the people who win and lose each other
Lining up for some new likeness as if you’re a brother.

  

How much more than Akcatraz you need your State to shimmer
The little trash heap that never could glimmer
Off the lights when America supplied studios ; 
All new reads all about it gone in
This is my Swan son.
You wait to see what happens to you
What have you done to me?
There used to be several bus routes
The Beyondness of Things and the number 63.
Countess and Duchess with the rigmarole of the sensuality
How many erectile dysfunctions can you go to without her beside me?
Sundays and the Church of Christ, settling what is Cult?
Theories on the Daily Show, selling what is to become online assault.

Therefore it is all the same to being and me
A little bit more than a terabyte or three:
When Tera Patrick is Tagatha and his clique
And you are doomed on the TV.