Talk to the Black Squirrel

Lightning strikes this neighborhood on the West side of Brooklyn, in the small hour between night and day.
Dawn fades in through brownstones, streets crowd with people, and the Interdimensional Diplomat comes in, through sky.
No, I can't forget people. They're my friends. Extended family.
They're not devilish toxins or dangerous adversaries, despite what electricity would have us believe.
Just look up the street. Stench of homicide bites your left nostril, so turn right.
You'll never have to turn left again.
Tomorrow, the Queen of Long Meadow stands at your door.
Turn inward, face your pillow. Sleep in!
On my way up the road, a woman pulled up in a car, and asked me if I needed a ride. I said "no thanks."
Come with me if you want to live.
Look up the street, at the Black Squirrel.
You'll talk to the Squirrel, I'll keep on walking.
I'll hunt for fortune cookies in the sewer.
Yeah, in the sewer!
On the West side of Brooklyn, in the magic hour oozing night from dying day.
When evening wind strikes brownstones, streets blast maniac tongues of rock and roll, and the Interdimensional Diplomat comes in, through sky.