The near dawn, iced, trash-strewn elevated concourse,

and I piddle on splintered-boards with drunken force.

Blottoed from what I call the broken dreams.

I softly ask, "Oh where is love and Gods scheme?"

Steel grinds steel; the approaching train screams,

The human incubus has laid my beams,

Conductors just another passenger.

Profit's purpose, guidance; has put us all in danger.

What is beyond mending ought be beyond anger.

Social conditioning is the insentient manager;

beneficence is just another dream;

There is no author of natures scheme;

a man penned The Sermon on the Mount.

There are no cosmic tears that count

the city that has tumbled down.

Competition has fellow feeling daily drowned.

"So pretentious ape," grinds the train,

"take a seat and rub your greatest pleasure,

for there connected to your brain

is what you humans use to measure."