I’ve been away and it’s been years.
Homecoming of realized fears.
They look like refugees under the overpass.
This town was always fucking hard.
The streets pocked, the windows barred.
Tent cities overflow beneath the broken lamps.
The ones who can are getting out.
The rest beg corners on a different route.
The stench of desperation thickens every day and you,
don’t fly the sign, you don’t survive the drought
But I love this town, and I always will.
Even if all the techies/yuppies invade from the ‘Frisco/Berkeley hills.
But I can’t pay rent without hustling.
Funny, when you are the bullshit that does you in
I hate to say that they were right.
Old stomping grounds have become blight.
Can’t even recognize the streets where we once lived.
Canondales and lycra suits.
Coffee shops and pop-up booths.
Frozen yogurt is the way it always ends
Recycling no longer worth the chase.
Skin color determines: shoot or taze.
Shopping carts and broken glass replaced,
By manicured perfection.
Yeah, it makes me want to break