Oh the city calls its wild wastes   its fortressed breeze to help      In the park was Caravaggio's Christ   who fucked the police and put an end to the price of automobile radio heists      And did you want to help did you think you'd help?      But your help was a hurt   A motivational welt   Wounds and their salts      "And the ill milk in your bones   and you whisper to your knees   and your two broken collarbones:   You want to take a photograph then take a photograph of me!"