Sip at my coffee in this grease ball café
Listening to the crowd maddening outside
In search for celebrity
In hopes of a spotlight
Rain drops pelt the darkness of this darkening world
Waitress sings a song about the daily specials
When all I really want is this coffee and some…
I look out the window to see a carbon copy
Of the latest fad from the no-longer-silver screen
And everyone else playing poor imitations of themselves
Bach echoes in my head, transposed into the trash playing on the radio
Crying out for individuality, but lacking all it takes
Much like the carbon copies and poor imitations outside
So I sit here in this grease ball café
Humming a tune from Bach,
Waiting for my order of change.
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