Night shift. Street wet. Head full. Teeth clenched. Thin walls. Blue glare. Bad signal everywhere. One more day went down wrong. Same dead mouth. Same old song. They smile clean. They talk mild. Knife language for grown childs. Office saints. Policy thugs. Soft hands dipped in blood. They sell control as public good. Sell fear like neighbourhood food. Every screen wants your spine. Every feed wants your mind. You know the tone. You know the drill. Keep it vague. Sit dead still. City wolves. Keep low. Watch doors. Talk cold. City wolves. No names. No trust. No saints. You get in. Lock in. Plug into the toxin. Fantasy pod. Domestic tomb. News-slurry fills the room. Open mouth. Take dose. Hot lie. Dead host. Panic rinse. Shame wash. Truth cut with white noise. You feel wrong in your gut. Still say, "Nothing much." Because you know how this one goes: one loose word, black van, closed. They built a myth called "better life." Good for sleep. Bad for sight. Nice house. Nice smile. Nice debt. Nice file. Nice manners. Nice grief. Nice chains with clean receipts. They train you up to love restraint, thank the boot, defend the cage. Duty pressed into your chest. Justice laced around your neck. City wolves. Keep low. Watch doors. Talk cold. City wolves. No names. No trust. No saints. Pretty dream. Factory made. Soft-lit trap. Lifetime cage. Good little heart. Good little nerve. Stand in line. Wait to serve. They want you scared, but house-trained too. Angry enough to blame your group. Tired enough to miss the theft. Proud enough to police yourself. That’s the trick. That’s the art. Build the jail inside the heart. Make you guard your own decline. Make you call submission "wise." Keep on kneeling. Keep on neat. One fine morning you’re the meat. City wolves. Eyes wide. No hymns. No guide. City wolves. Street code. Live sharp. Die old. No sermon. No cure. No halo this pure. Just concrete. Wet light. Wolf breath. All night.
