Sit pretty,
think how wonderful the City that makes
many dreams come true.

But
thinking is the poor man's way of claiming that which is not theirs, it's the doing of the dream you dare that makes you want to be out there, in here you sit,
pretty for a bit and then you fade.

Pull the wool from eyes where sight's been compromised affecting every other sense like common sense and see the sense in telling no more lies,
you're caught, betrayed by indiscretions,
how loose the wagging tongue to run which buys a truth in tales it tells.

Conversations (half forgotten) is where email comes to get a shot in and to throw away remarks where those remarks would count as currency to make the case is quite beyond me.

You
sit pretty and
think how wonderful the city, but
I am busy being busy
busy, busy with no time
to sit at all.