It is the crashing classical story,
Roaring rise and feathery fall
How knots and cash
Blur rippled lines,
Turn dreams into scheming plots,
Into sandy abrasive buildings
From minuscule ideas in garages
To New York City glam.
It is how men have too much testosterone
Acidic tempting need
To overcome their debauchery,
Float and croon above the water:
Clash, chuckle, snort
The bills away,
Sizzle, slurp, howl
The night away,
Blare, hoot, whistle
The day away.
Women are objects full of exotic flavour
To slam, pop, rattle
Their lives away.
It’s the woven plots
Of how man meets the green
Floats and drowns in it.
Classic, tragic, magic
The fantasy away. We all know the exit
With no money, no women, no erection,
Yet in those tantalizing shades
One can see how many women
Grew balls, found freedom, paid rent,
Sizzled in power
Before the handcuffs
Touched the perfume
On their wrists.