Thinking that punks are dead.
Or maybe I just thought they only lived in Londontown, not here in New York, crawling from the underground.
They come in dirty droves, followed by clouds, smoke, and stench,
lay haplessly in the grass, the park bench.
Locked by dread, of the hair and humankind,
people scatter when they wonder, mostly fear in mind.
I don’t care to try and fight, these punks are generally quite polite.
At least more often than not, which is saying a lot, considering the other type of man I’ve seen.
Short and stout, not long and lean, called me a cunt in my own bed.
Crawled in my heart and wished it dead.
I expected more from a man Down Under, what I got instead, my soul plundered.
You can bet I’d trust a sloppy punk over a man like that.
Someone like MCA in the early days,
or later still -
hell, in any phase.
Enough already, this shit is troubling,
New York I'm ready for something real and lovely.
Brooklyn, what's the news?
I'm ready to shake these blues.
Send me a muse!
Keep the crocodiles at bay, their teeth sharper than their wit
That for me, just won't fit
In my heart or in my head.
Send me something my soul won't dread.