This pretty, smog-filled city is mine:
The stopping past the limit line,
The steep green hills and power lines
Buzzing with the current that is now,
That is driving with the windows down,
Thriving on familiar sounds
That kept my feet on the ground
Until the ground left with me,
Ascending several thousand feet
So that New Years was a distant sound.
And somewhere in that smoggy sky,
The fireworks burned out of sight,
The muted booms stayed in their rooms
While I drove home through a quiet night.
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