The aura of the city,

Has a fervid boom,

At two forty three;

Under the chilly azure moon.

The warm blooded pound;

Of the VIPs tune,

Wakes the drunken hell-hound,

Under the cloud obscured Lune.

With smoke veiled floors,

That cause souls indite,

And their skin-tight whores;

Under the shimmering strobe-light.

The drunken daze,

Its my soul that I lack,

The drug induced craze,

Its not the right track,

I love this city,

And its fervid boom;

It sets my mind free,

To live under that moon.

Or listen to that pound,

within the oscillator tune,

It makes me a hell-hound;

It drives me awfully Lune.

On bright lit floors,

The moves are indite,

And between the beloved whores

Stands the DJ in the spot-light.

His skills are-a daze.

It must be something I lack,

It’s his post I crave;

So I can play my own track.

At horizon-less Bash