Maybe it meant nothing to him
The burnt out flourescent lights
The gin and whiskey nights
His soul on the radio, displayed
A game he was losing
The singers were only dancers now
And he could only sing
To the tune of his beat up six string
Bent on saving the world
But mostly just bent,
Tired and worn thin
The digital cadence
The computer generated theme
The color of music gone green
And with that thought
He leaned out over the litter ridden curb
and heaved...