Nose pressed hard on frosty glass, gazing at the swollen paths on concrete fields by closed mountain grass, stumbles blindly on.

Iron trees smother the air with the rain.

They stand and stare through eyes to me.

They know no care where the rest has gone.

Days of early splendor Oh The race is over, Hurley, where's your milk white skin?

What's that scubble on your chin?

It's buried in the rocket chin You play, a lifestyle of one.

You played a house that can't be beaten out, look your heads bowed in defeat.

You walk too far along the streets, where only rats hang on.