The ponds don't come small enough here.
Eight million minds do more than just tread water,
And webbed feet don't work too well on sidewalks.
For the moment, the sky's only sharpening his knife,
But rest assured, he'll be ready in a New York minute.
Tomorrow made room for too many blind spots,
So a preference lies along a trail of breadcrumbs,
Half eaten by pigeons,
Scattered over the bridges left burning.
Old ink clings to yellow pages
Like mud on a brand new dress.
The same line shines through every letter:
"Keep on dreaming big, girl,
"'Cause you're so much better than this place."