The baubles of trade on the boulevard:
kerb crawlers, rock spiders and pest.
With foibles arrayed on the boulevard,
and the ritual of greed and excess.
Hardcore is made on the boulevard,
that tenders the sins fully fleshed.
And ardor is hard on the boulevard,
as the sun sets in the west.
It’s cool dimming rays
takes the heat off the day
as warm colours grey
and light turns away.
As the twilight invests
to disguise the obsessed
who stalk like lost guests
on a cheap holiday.
I’ve dealt the low cards on the boulevard,
in flash bars at urgent behest.
And I melt the blowhards on the boulevard,
with the sweet scent of ruthless success.
I’ve shunned the old guard on the boulevard;
I disdain their easy address.
I’ve spun the bard’s words on the boulevard;
as the sun sets in the west.
It’s cool dimming rays
takes the heat off the day
as warm colours grey
and light turns away.
As the shadows express
our compulsions that wrest
with the lust long repressed
so to keep us in sway.
A morbid parade on the boulevard;
a cold look and icy stare best.
The fashions of death on the bodyguards;
the rough cut of bullet-proof vest.
But orbits decay on the boulevard,
like a falling star’s vain cosmic jest.
Gravity at play on the boulevard,
as the sun sets in the west.
It’s cool dimming rays
takes the heat off the day
as warm colours grey
and light turns away.
And the new night suggests
the pursuit of dark quests;
in flight we transgress
as we’re all led astray.
Hard yards are made on the boulevard,
as the sun sets in the west.
Hardball is played on the boulevard,
by riding the wave on the crest.
I’ve done the hard yards on the boulevard,
now due, in peace, to rest.
I’ve done the hard yards on the boulevard,
as the sun sets in the west.
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