Take a deep breath, in this city of industry,
Spit toxins more black than a charcoal symphony.
There, in the outskirts of the city,
The Chief reclines on his rocking chair,
Almost looks as if he’s dead.
Always out at the stoop,
Greeting neighbours or sleeping.
Some might say he spends his whole day daydreaming,
That’s what it takes to be alive,
In this city of industry.