Horns, mad taxi’s rabid voice

Horns blare into street air

And silver plate glass shudders

Because it just doesn’t care

Sirens, crying of the victims lost

EMT’s, or the thin blue line

It’s all blood red after midnight

Inside the marked yellow line

Whistles, white gloves’ rapid gesture

And behemoths all stampede

But pedestrians simply walk

To show they have no pressing need

Voices, shouts and deprications

Is it a game or just a mob?

Orders, fierce bosses yelling orders

Dammit all, just do your job!

It is a loud life for a city

Concrete, glass and steel

Please skip the pot-holed madness

And let its people feel.

But there in Central Park.

A delivered child of Tophet

Speaks fearless into the noise

The quiet surity of a prophet.

Judgment has been long delayed

But surely not forgotten

Sense the wind America

And sniff the omen burning rotten.

No one finds pure justice anymore

Jurists bought and sold

Crime now pays its dividends

Where e’er its story dares get told.

The church, the state, march arm on arm

Against all private conscience

You’ll buy and sell or go to hell

Without a voiced remonstrance

Soon, you’ll arrive too late to listen

So hold that dead tomato

Before you throw it in the eye

Of the final stealth tornado.

You ask me why I do not yell

As if to increase my profit

A whisper carries just as well

When delivered by God’s prophet.