Philosophical

The city is a metal animal 
Groaning under the sands of time 
Squeaking and sparking, rust 
Creeps slowly over steel bulwarks 
That drip with oil and blood 
Of those who labor here, in the depths 
The layers in this place run deep and high 
From shining streets to dirty sheets 
And greasy smoke jumping upwards 
To meet with the evergreen scent 
Of private offices and places 
Where things like self destruction 
Can be turned away and ignored 
So that the annual profit margin 
May be discussed in greater detail

The Groaning City