Broken Song

Spring or summer, matters not,

Either way the world still rots.

Autumn or winter, either way,

We're living out our final days.

...

No birds are left, can't hear their song,

As the starving masses march along.

Global famine, water unclean,

All trapped in Purgatory's dream.

...

For other worlds, some head to space.

The brightest of the human race.

While billions do not see the sun,

Who know the human story's done.

...

Still greed, still war, still breed our slaves,

To serve the whims of those depraved.

A poisoned world, a broken home,

Now through the smog-filled streets we roam.

...

In this place, Los Angeles,

No song of bird upon the breeze.

The desperate throngs all know too well,

There are no angels in this Hell.