A feather on my back
While I walk the streets
A cornucopia of faded color
Beneath the el
Hustlers, hopers, seedy bar rustlers

I tried not to step on any cracks
Old superstitions never die
The smell of car exhaust
Filling me up, leaving me dry
Beneath the el, a world without seeds

Fire-eaters without flames
A baby gurgles, writhes in pain
The tatoos all look the same
Tennis shoes, trolley tracks
Beneath the el, beyond all trees
All the same, but not

Pawn shops with neon gates
Cobblestoned parking spaces
Doppler-drenched Reggaeton beats
Passing cars, oil leaks
Beneath the el, ugly is neat
Tidy is the garbage in the street

Hustlers, hopers, seedy bar rustlers
Beneath the el, a world without seeds
Beyond all trees, ugly is neat
Tidy is the garbage in the street