NIGHT TAKES A BOOT TO THE RIBS

The clock is sleeping when the drunks strike two.

Night takes a boot to the ribs —

"Move along. You can't sleep here kid!"

And no one cares how much rent is or how early you have to be up for work. 

The bars pour out—

The loaded load onto the streets and into their cars. 

Laughing and fighting outside my window,

Yelling and crying like lost children.

Then comes the breaking glass, gun shots, and screams.

And it doesn't stop until every siren of every last cop car, ambulance, and fire truck in this god-damned city cry out, "FUCK IT! EVERYBODY UP!"

And the night is no longer sacred.