The Town

 

Its five o’clock on the dot as a crow flies, and as the usual, the streets erupt with 80,000 plus

All rabid and foaming at the bit to trade one misery for some sort of other, In such American nine to five tradition-

They’ve fought tooth and nail to be first at the punch-out booth, leaving behind a few late night b******s,

Nevermind the saying “never leave a man behind.” - theres a traffic line to beat

Though I hate to be the one to tell you, word has it the red sea already parted,

And no, you weren’t invited. Welcome to the three hour commute.

 

 

Some rush to white picketed homes with neat little families who all wear smiles bought at a price called the Dream

Though each and every one around that dinner table defines it differently accordingly;

And Each have their secrets, hidden with care- smothered by the food that poorer hands prepared

And a round of lies about the day you were denied once again, but like to pretend

Unless you’re the teen who never sees the cup until its spilling over, and spitefully call it empty still- 

The executive will loosen his tie, and carefully leave his secretary out of the talk

As he spills the details of various accounts, and possible promotion

The wife will explain that the missing 60 bucks went to plumber Jake for “services rendered”

And the kids… one could be pregnant, the other lives for rebellion and weed,

oppressed by suburbia he says- citing need.  

 

some will flock to the bars; having just forgotten yesterdays hangover

Jake and the hardhats will discuss the horrors of manual labor and cracks that saw too much sun

Bypassing Gatorade and water for round upon round of Budweiser and maybe something foreign, depending

That’s where the w****s will be too, for the first shift of the day- looking for back pockets that are battling the bulge. 

They’ve spent all their money on their outfits- some might say they’re best investors in the joint,

If you add up all the free drinks and single serving benefits- no strings attached, no interest.

Here the vultures circle the room in v-cuts and heels, looking for some gullible kill

Not that it matters to the fellas in the place; Men hate strings too, except for those that they call G

Even then it’s a love/hate relationship with the things.

 

Others will prowl the streets for hours, uncertain, bored, unemployed and some sort of lost

Some might picture a walk in the park, but there aren’t parks here as you might imagine them

  There are only alleys and other places just 0ut-of-sight full of vagabonds looking for a fix or a fight

Throwing up signs and using a language that is supposed to demand respect, if you can understand it

Ive often gazed upon graffiti and felt as though I was reading an illiterate mans’ version of Mein Kampf

Signs and words meant to represent some superficial ideal that the world will soon swallow whole

They’ll stay hidden for the most part, until the reds, blues, and patches are better camouflaged

 

 

 

It is in the later hours that the suburbanites will creep back in to town after the soccer games,

Each finding some excuse, some alibi, to escape Utopia and join Jake and them in drowning a misspent life,

Buying drinks for strangers from separate walks of life and telling lies because its allowed on these premises.

Though not all accounts are fake, Jake's story certainly wasn’t, but Suburbia Rich hadn’t put it together yet,

Or maybe he ignored it completely, as they all in a group left the bar looking like the village people,

On their way to the strip club down the street, where they hope girls their daughters’ age wait

And pray its not their wives at stake- there's been times its happened that way.

 

Dollar signs and g-strings, all glowing under beautiful neon light, this is where our grand society convenes in secrecy

The elite, the middle class, the lower, the inbetweeners, the drug dealers, and the crooks around back

waiting to rob someone for a bandana’s honor and a beer, nothing clever there

 

Tomorrow, it will be business as usual, with just a few such differentials as

The names of single-serving friends who found their way to odd beds,

The stories each will likely not remember to share, or don’t dare.

the dead man, a plumber, found drowned in a toilet (that’s irony there)

the guilt that all of the citizens share and the burden the convicted may or may not bear

and the validity of smiles that start to tilt over time,  for the soul cannot lie like carriers or alibis.

Here in the town, everyone is guilty, But no one cares. There’s beer for that cure.