Down in the poor quarter where
no quarter is given
where there's no life in the living and
the dead are not missed
I sprawl out in the shop doorway and
get ******.

No one here cares about that,
the shop has been closed since the riots
no one spares me a second look and
I'm getting more ****** so
what the ****.

There are reflections in the broken glass and
they pass by me, like butterflies
the colours make me realise that this is
not a home
that this is me being all alone in
a lonely place where the broken face in
the broken glass
is me.

In the poor quarter
all I can see are the prostitutes
among the destitute and
reflections of me.