Night Steppa

In the last hours before the faded grey of daylight
A bassline is sobbing under a fat faced, acned moon
And soon the godly and god-fearing shall be swearing to a cross Christ
Shouting and screaming ululations like grieving woman lacerating the air
Praising, praying and pleading for ease from lives adorned by rows and the will of rusty guns
Their sun [?] face to show the screen
As the last [?] living [?] honour the dead with eyes swollen to a torrent of tears

Later, they'll roam the star-spangled no frills aisle
Chickenshit and wishbones
Popping a pill full of discount coupons and dreams
Trying to buy a stroke of [?] respect and some penicillin for the spirit
See how mothers ladle big bowls of rice and savoury goat stew
While the men pass bottles of fiery, unrefined rum
And their children's babies are hushed by mother's milk and pale grey skies
Survival is a full-time job
A lifetime career to most

She's only people between pauses and feeding twisting baby [?] of hair
Smiles mingle with sadness
He resembled his father in his shifting eye
Grandma reads a story
Daughter needs a rest
Her clothes like loose skin and bone, she hoped she'd see his father soon
Her options dwindle like her weight

Meanwhile on neon [?] streets
The young father grinds his serrated teeth like locusts
He's got a magic manhood, hates life and all things true
He caresses his fingers on his gun, and rides the wings of fickle whinge through the punk [?] sinews of the city

Face to face with wooden guns and iron will
He's whistling giving the breeze a tune
Denizen of the night
Every sense alert as the air is thick with mist
Making figures into ghosts
The impression ain't worse than hard time
But he needs money
Bullets explode with white fury and the full moon looks like a tunnel
A way to escape
Lying on his back
Confronted by the city's face
He wishes he could see his son again
And in the last hours before the faded grey of daylight
A bassline is sobbing under a fat faced, acned moon