There's a "Poet In The City", on the radio.
All this hype
About the man in the pin stripe.
Not a peep
About the man who gonna keep
It real
On the wheels of steel
In the disco.

He's a city banker, with a silver tongue.
His words are careful,
His voice soulful.
But a world away
From the day to day
Existence,
The simple subsistence
Of the man with a gun.

He stands on the platform, reading the times.
Cooking up deals.
In his ribs he feels
Cold steel,
And the eyes that can't conceal
Purest hatred,
The desire to be fed,
The addiction directing his crimes.

The poet is angry, the poet is brave.
He shouts at the man
As loud as he can.
He didn't figure
That he'd pull the trigger.
Struggling in vain
At the growing dark stain.
The poet is sent to his grave.