City smells of paperbacks rolled up in jacket pockets,nPaperbacks that serve to say “Yes I’m well read, now will you fuck me?”nCity smells of lonesome singers singing lonesome songsnIn a barroom where the shadows they grow longer with each note he fails to catchnnThe city smells of you, woke up in dope-sick stupor,nI’m here, I lay awake in case you needed menFor when I fall asleep I’m hard to shake, what with the pills I have to takenTo force the dreams back to the bottom of the arsehole of my mindnnCountry smells of taunting spiteful train-tracks,nAnd the faces that peer out along the way to somewhere I’m afraid to gonSmells of sun-bleached stones and sitting out reading de SadenOn April evenings, with the dusk accentuating every syllablennThe country smells of hope, of hope for progressionnProgression, and I will progress in spite of what I say,nCountry smells of memories and words that I might speaknOr I might sing to you, if you were not so fuckin far awaynnCity pierces sky, country hugs the dirt, and I here someplace in-between,nNot quite the wind, not quite the soil,nCity reeks of loves I long to gain, the country, loves that I destroyednAnd destroyed all that they had touched, and they touched me, they silenced mennThe night-time smells of scheming and of plotting,nIn the morning it’s forgotten,nFor the morning smells of cold realitynThe night-time is that city and that sky with stars obscured by neon etchingsnFrom the gutters to the rooftops, never dimmin, never dienNever dimmin, never die