Down at the Greyhound depot,
The casualties lie etherized
like stars set against the sky.
A blank look in their eyes,
As the buses go by.
The yellow smoke that cats the ground;
The noxious fumes and car exhaust,
mingle with the cheap perfume.
And in the temple of the lost,
there is a sense of doom.
And the girls circle round and round.
They click and cluck about a stroke of luck
that could befall that special guy
who knows when fate has struck,
and refuses to ask why.