boots crunch on rusted scrap and dry gravel
heavy smoke fills lungs like a basement furnace
(cough it up)
i see old pipes leaking black oil on stone
my eyes stay red from the haze and hustle

standing where the brick meets a cold gray sky
a grimy gentleman holding a broken umbrella
i am the king of rats in this dusty kingdom
every step is a heavy thud on the pavement
(thud, thud)

the meridian line cuts through the block
one side crumbles, the other side shines
i stand on the paint like a tightrope
feeling both worlds pulling at my spine

brass hits like a verdict
strings rise like a question
the 808 answers for me
boom — that’s the direction

old world on my left shoulder
new world on my right
i don’t choose a side
i become the line