New Chicago

Splat-pitter-patter: the skies spit jazz.

splat-pitter-patter: the skies spit jazz
landing, scattering
spattering boastfully, teasing
don't slip!

chips are spiced with a bit of salsa
classy, intriguing melodies
foreign hunks showcasing women
encompassing their dance floor

blues drag themselves along sidewalks
pseudo-confident strides versus timid shuffles
sweeping gracefully, tripping clumsily
step aside, your dictator is coming through

some rock rears its monstrous head
booming and roaring, such gruesome dictatorship
"hear me shout!"
holding tight to an iron-fist rule

but through epochs
those heavens continue pouring out all gloom
slightly arrogant, vaguely conceited
yet still sweetly miserable: plop!