Empty silhouettes wander down abandoned streets, Dousing their souls in scotch and whiskey Placing firey papers to their lips and their lungs full of tar The only noise comes from the dead houses, Filled with broken children And tired parents with bags upon bags upon bags under their lonely eyes And unowned women stand on the corners, climbing into old cars Their mothers wouldn't be proud And babies can be seen crying through cracked windows While husbands caress their wives, the ones covered in bruises And teenagers sit on stoops, covering their damaged arms and bandaged hearts