Singing Bowie in the backseat of the car,
Angry at the speakers' dull drum from wear and
Tear through the city, with the lights
Illuminating the crude black
Streets cluttered with the smell,
Feeling of rot and decay, hopeless,
Acting like I don't see it, I don't
Care to feel that single
Tingle, stretching from chest to eyes,
Into flushed red ears.
Obvious dishonesty killing time with
No one, faking feeling inside a car.