Here it comes
The famous polite jungle stroking my palms
I tell you what, not innocently at all
Everywhere, going down and up and left and right
Encircling it with my closed eyes
Whatever has-been dusty road
Could be taken to make as if
It leads on to the axial power on this air mattress
I cannot break out of the trees
I stay in a religious stupor
Humbly facing the sanctification of this town, its nubile soul
Each morning
I’m greened in right up to my spine
I’m greened in right up to my spine
I’m expecting the skid now
Getting out from the burning sleep
The skull still begging for
The complete dismissal of the air conditioning
It comes to me like a gust of fresh auspices
I sit on Central Park’s abundant knees
And each time
After the pneumatic song of collision it triggers
Calms down
For a few hours, I become
A little more master in my own town.