Here is the
city I was born in,
Where the opium moon shines.
Night lets down its dark, narcotic
Hair and a nothing-wind blows.
lap steel shores,
And I ask: "is this life, is it, is it?"
But no one answers me today,
I may call again tomorrow, maybe.
I think God is
on vacation again,
And I think it's gonna rain today.
This city smells of rot and disease,
It smells of cheap and perfumed dreams.
And I realize
that I hate myself,
And I realize that I always will.
This is the city I will die in,
And the sun will never rise.
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