It's a sick world and onnocence doesn't last any longer than bloodstains on the city streats that wash out with the rain, slip through gutters and down the drains.
Down here life decays like scraps of old newsprint that yellow with age. There's a place in the city where things go to die and the streets are littered with soiled lives. Human wreckage the byproduct of a diseased society. It's a disease.
It's a cold world and the sick and addicted are left to die in the corner of town that tourists don't see and on the street corners at night.
Desperation is an ugly sight so we force fake smiles and avert our eyes. We become prisoners of our own privilege, living in fear of those we've demonized.
There's a place in the city where things go to die. A spectacle of ruined lives. Destitution and addiction, symptoms of a modern plague.
It's a disease. So lock your doors and close your eyes and whisper to yourself:
"Everything will be alright." It's a cruel world and innocence gets lost somewhere in piss soaked alleys and on filthy streets.
