The city looked so innocent at the Crack of dawn
You'd swear it didn't bawl bullets
His wind hit me across the face and deflowered me
I looked up his blues and what ran through his veins was nothing like his aqueous humor
I layed back on his dry turf and his blades made me bruise my dermis
Making me a mechocist
The taxi's hooted but none as loud as the lost souls slayed by this imp, I mean him
His rage was louder than that of his son's
I wondered when they'd realise taking pussy made them pussys.
His gust of air reeked blood from all the dreams he promised and snatched
Gold is what we see him as, a point of zero is what he is
His smile took shape of Riccardos Tisci then that of Aldolf Hitler
Dawn fixated me to him the light made him less angrier, safer
He has femininity in him though, his 1645 km² body holds 957441 of us
Maybe that's why he is so cold
Perhaps we stretched him beyond his snap
The more his musculature clench tighter the crueler he gets
His sons clean his streets and have him still starve them
In the day he is bustling and at night his bullets are the aria
Bodies drop dead like hats being taken off to applaud.
I present to you the city of 'Gold'
