I hear the grating of an old engine
and the squealing of breaks gone bad,
and the stretching glare of the streetlights
illuminate the road shaped sad,

and the world is always rushing, rushing,
like a run in a stocking diving down.
Paint nail polish on it and run along,
and paddle up the stream to drown.

And the tail lights burn against the backs of cars
and the horns blare deep into the night.
The orange streets tremble beneath the rain
and the mud-splashed gravel takes flight.

And the world is always rushing, rushing,
up over my head in a flood,
and the grating sounds like wind-blown grass
and the stretching glare lights the mud.

The surface is naught but a distant dream.
Traffic lights glitter like glass.
The rain pours gently as white noise
and roars as the cars pass.

And the streets are left a muffled void,
nowhere to rush in the black.
And I trudge through the deluge-strewn grime,
resentment at my back.