to my tattered brothers and sisters I sing this little tune for you:

Pick up a bottle
Throw away your lives
Pitch a tent under an overpass in San Francisco.
Collect tin cans that never rust
and pick for food in garbage cans.
Talk too loud cause your used to to hum and the buzz of the engines that never quite seem to turn off.
Your white noise, your little humming butterfly.

I see hipster talking cool cat bearing fake glass wearing tight jean preaching ***** walking down old man made a big buck avenue.
Maybe I'm just jealous that my ***** die from boxer briefs n levi skinny fits with out benjamin striding along my side.

Old punk rockers tye dye bandanna wearing sweet talking hard headed mother ******* that never quite seem to die.
Keep getting laid off and job offers but no parachute, no just in cases only no replies. Name your dog's royalty, let them splash through mud, don't you care if your old woman can't dare to see the beauty in your queen's ***** getting all wet from playing with new friends. "Keep living while your young"

The smarts can't hold a job with business's that no one really cares. You live your suburban dream with Rudolf leading santa's slay with light's too bright for all your neighbors to stare. Email lists, outlook express, phones phones phones out for a contact you may never see again. Where'd the comradmanship go when working wasn't work it was fun as well.

To young ones rolling half empty water bottles down stairs, covering curious eyes with baseball caps, sneaking candy cookies cause you don't care about sugar high's or blood. Listen to your music "its good for the soul" but don't wear nice yuppie clothes to impress upon those older queers. Ice cream scoops to big to bear, make no sense to those that hear baffled cries of young mans rise, don't be afraid to be afraid. Young ***** hurt, I know.

City streets, and landfill pies, composting spoons made of tater starch, eating new foods crying old cries. Food too cold, too hot, too dry. Empanada's good, pork liver bad. These kids is cool, making something of themselves, talk to no one, no need just feel the vibe.

White walls dappled with texture, more appeasing for the eyes. A house with too many switches yet no lights, not enough lamps for more shadows and less tries. Floors don't need no wood laid out, concrete works, it's cheaper too. The house stays warm when your burning money for fire rather than cheap rides.

This is what they saw, just a new age, a new time. This is what I see, and why I sing, and why I tell you all of a decade which may never sleep enough to watch the old sun fall. Those dreams may be too real after all.