They all got trapped in concrete wombs,
stuck in their childhood clothes
like stop signs in the street
unable to flip their time, rolling
over dead, unable to stand
on their own two feet
what a failed life, mother’s
heads still hanging down low basking
their necks in the Father’s shame
dead corpses lay stale on benches,
while others lay lifeless
on top of hop scotch games
hot peas and butter please,
they hope to feast, but
only in their dreams
got the sandman running crazy
at night delivering fresh nightmares
to hungry men, just follow the steam
amoungst them, the next
generation laugh and play
in hoods of a ghost town
while two generations before,
who lived and learned look
from their windows and frown