Second hand smoke and rusty stove tops weren't enough for

that lady...wanting to confront the Federal Republic's muddle puddles,

yet playing hopscotch over elementary opportunities,

her pavement quickly drowning.

And what if she wanted to give more?

Maybe she could have if you had handed her that pencil

and said something simple and blissful like 'try',

maybe she could been a Tennyson of sorts,

her hands busy scrawling.

That more was carved, an option in your mind,

you saw her bleeding hands, her silver eyes,

but you also viewed the state of your city

and so you knew,as profoundly as your sex,

her cursed name was Inferior.