The sirens are wailing again.
They're coming to take another
half-baked lunatic, megaphone in hand,
into the metropolitan dungeon.

Filth lines the walls.
People move as ghosts through
heavy daylight, jumping at each
shadow's stirring, each laden breath.

We watch as they crack into his skull.
A spectacle no more, yet it reminds
us of the immortal mountain that
buckles over our heads.

Synthetic lullabies sing the rich to sleep.
New hammers and strings over
old, old songs, as the one-stringed busker
plays his ode to death.

The cannibals live outside old suburbia.
They saw society fall, and fell
instantly into their animalistic selves.
Only the gang-lords stray into their terraces,

for only they have something to offer.
The rest is just flesh and blood-justice
against the rich augmenting their memory,
against the poor for toiling the fields,

against their God for not existing,
against themselves for never straying to object.