Downtown Los Angeles.
Leather couches and barbed wire
A choir of commercial jets
Shake loose from the metal frame
Of this warehouse,
Painted with phrases worn out,
And get lost in the scrap yard of the dead
Somewhere over the fence
On which I rest my head,
It came and left in a rumble.
The tumblers start up
And tear this heart up.
Hipsters,
Industrial strength.
Hissers give them hunger pangs
And venom glistens on the floor
Making and breaking,
Always wanting more.
And of course we know the truth:
These are the trials and errors of youth.
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