Quitzau illustration

The rainwater hits the city of lost souls like small bombshells,
Working its way through cracks and holes,
Filling up everything,
Leaving out nothing.

A fruit fly hits a saloon table,
Dances like crazy on its last night,
The buskers in the bar laugh coherently,
The hookers in the street nods knowingly.

The smoke-filled suite rooms are tired and used,
The piano is smiling; it is past false-o-clock,
The curtains gaze out,
The dirty sheets tuck themselves in.

In the city of shouts,
In the city of procrastination,
In the city of sleeze,
Dionysos has stopped eating his grapes.