Subways, trains, long traffic lines
Sleepy eyes, empty silence
In a cold impersonal morninglight
Lonely desolate bohemian
The smell of freedom in his clothes
Longing for a warm bed
The street still cool and damp
Artificial lights have lost
Another world has won
Once King of the Night
Now pushed aside by ambition
The hasty rushing busy bees
He Looks at this with sorrowful eyes
In his pocket his newest poem
Almost unreadable stained coaster
Overrun and ignored
He doesn't exist in the morning
They'll only notice him tonight, on t.v.