It’s a straight shot
Through a den
Of unchecked illness and squalor

The embrace of clutter
Is a putrid vise for the soul
As you dance, with each maddening voice
That foams at the shudder
Of your wealthy frame

Show nothing
But a hardened scowl
Or cash all of your chips
Into the seething gutters

It’s just a straight shot
Through a hopeless rift in our world
Full of vagrants and villains
To the agony, of quiet suspicion