When one doth wander through the streets
Of downtown ‘Frisco, where the skyscrapers grow
And past each faceless tower I meet,
Faces of poverty, faces of woe.
Their hands are marked the blackest shade.
Their eyes, forlorn, and jaded.
Their skin, a callous bruised ugly bane
Their temple has been forsaken.
How sickly the homeless children appear
In contrast to the tech bourgeoise
Who peddle near the throng of queers
To appeal to one particular party.
But most thro’ darkened alleys I see
How the needy have lost the Russian roulette
And gathered in groups, I hear them plead
While they use the city as their toilet.