Seven on a Monday morning.. And it's a sunny day.. It's just too hot to be working. But you've got to pay your way.. . So here I am sitting at the bus stop.
The great flood of tears that we've cried. For our brothers and sisters who've died. Over four hundred years. Has washed away our fears. And strengthened our pride.
The neon haze of city lights. The tribal sound of marching feet. Cuts through the gloom on cold dark nights. The tired and homeless roam the streets. The sirens wail the engines roar.
A human statue made of living stone. A paradox etched in human bone. If you could look behind his thin disguise. There's a hidden glint of madness in his eyes..