Prince of Georgia Lyrics

The cafe clerk is baking bread. A bird sings its independence.

The busker knows a single song, maintaining proper distance.

Boundaries are drawn, inctus, between the dusk and sunset.

The brutalist, formalist, international palimpsest.

The sun is turning buildings gold, which once were steel and stone.

The traffic thins, the crowds disperse, the frenzy come and gone.

The clouds computing and disputing where the shadows lap,

As matrices and interlocking puzzle pieces snap.

The Prince of Georgia marches through the rusted gated gap.

Where machinery of city architecture rules the dead.

Extremities in place as if living. There you said,

"All this work is working for us before we're ever there,

And all this work is working on, long after we don't care."

The brutalist, formalist, international palimpsest.

The whirring of the pedals amidst the clicking and the clacks.

The grinding of the gears and the closing of the traps.

The clouds computing and disputing where the shadows lap,

(The graceful way you held a cigarette.)

As matrices and interlocking puzzle pieces snap.

(And listened to my song.)

The Prince of Georgia marches through the rusted gated gap.

(I wish I could remember the moment you were gone.)