gil scott heron – new york is killing me

The end of my medical condition, an end to my long standing suffering, the clapping hands clapping for the heavenly man, the sun shining in the eyes of the Tennessee man, the broken bottles and split open cans, the sun rising over broad stripes and bright stars, crawling out of the midnight city bars, the daily grind of the city’s parking lot scratched cars, the yellow mustard cab splashing puddles on me again and again the garden apple is the death of man.



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