Astoria

Leave a comment

Astoria,
the Greeks got it made.
They fled from their ruins,
and chose you for their graves.
Your cost is so high;
the struggle is the same.
Oh, Astoria, free your slaves.

Astoria.

It will always be
the Triboro.
The skyline promises
a better tomorrow.

The Hellgate dirty river
in their young veins:
kids are getting high,
and everything seems the same.

The church bells strike
on Ditmars Boulevard;
widows still dressed in black,
cross their lonely hearts.

Their aging sons
watch young girls walk by.
History is sold
for another coffee shop.

Astoria,
the Greeks are betrayed.
They saved you from ruin,
but you’ve changed your face:
the hookah pipes,
the hipster babes.
Oh, Astoria, free your slaves.

Astoria.

It Was My Last One

Leave a comment

What do you do about the pregnant lady in a fur coat?
Do you give up your seat, or do you just let her stand?
She’s a killer.
She’s a mother of life.

What do you do about the girl scout who cusses out all the time?
Do you call her out, or do you just buy her cookies?
She’s a criminal.
She’s just a kid.

What do you do about the homeless man who wants a cigarette?
Do you give him one, or do you just go your own way?
It was my last one.
But he aint got twelve bucks.

You’re Doing Fine

Leave a comment

If you can make a song
out of a car alarm,
then you’re doing fine.

If you can ignore
that you’re always gonna be poor,
then you’re doing fine.

But some people can’t relate.
They’ll set up a mother fucking rake
on your face.
Just like Tom and Jerry.
You’ll fall down a manhole
on your roller-skates.
And that shit hurts.

A Fake

Leave a comment

I’m disappearing.
I’m insincere-ing.
I’m miles away.
I’m tired of being a fake.

So many days
in this office malaise.
I just exist
to kiss your excel list.

What will become of me
when I am 43?
Will I still take this seriously?
Will I do the best I can?

What will become of me
when I am 53?
What will my kids think of me?
Will I be a better man?

I take the train
and it’s always the same.
I’m pushed to the brink
and it’s so unlimited.

I’m disappearing.
I’m insincere-ing.
I’m miles away.
I’m tired of being a fake.