They smoke a lot of cones by the east-side lobby,
watch the sun come up in a habit-***-hobby.
Sweatshirts line the edge of the high-rise feature,
they pass their smoke through kisses, creature-to-creature.

The weeds hang over their heads in a brick-work reminder,
search-parties comb the woods, but they couldn't find her.
In the murmur of the city, with the street-kids drinking,
cooking up their schemes for a new-wave thinking.

The papers plaster words of in-group fear,
view the class-war that is coming near.
They don't vote for the parties that bring come-downs and blood;
they'd write a sing-song for freedom, if only they could.

They exchange love like high-fives, in teenage abandon,
now in their mid-twenties, still dreaming of Camden.
In the centrifuge of their small-town dissonance,
they toast to their cancer; to their short-lived innocence.