The reds are dying out

It‘s hell below

This yellow sun

The reds are dying out

No autumn leaf

Can turn these tides

The businessmen have spoken

The pavement pressed against my face

I shall not see no clouds

A sewer breeze conducts my path

The bottom of my well

Under which I found no coins

Just shit and mud and glass

I stir these things to poetry

This splendid putrid mass