When the Music’s Over, the City's Cry

In the shadowed streets where Gotham groans,
Concrete whispers, steel bones moan.
Decay in the night, a metropolis in plight,
Where dreams flicker in the broken light.

The Times Square lights, once pure, now stained,
With theaters of lust, where innocence waned.
But listen close, beyond the sordid screen,
The echoes of rock, a rebellious dream.

Fillmore East, a temple to sound,
Where the lost and the found gather 'round.
Bill’s magic touch, weaving harmony and chaos,
In the heart of the city’s dark pathos.

Jimi's guitar, a wild lament,
Notes of freedom, broken, bent.
Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young,
Voices rising, a song unsung.

The Allman Brothers, a southern breeze,
In the city's concrete seas.
Hendrix’s fire, Morrison’s cry,
In the heart of darkness, reaching for the sky.

Bill, the dreamer, saw the light dim,
The peace he yearned for slipping, slim.
Producer’s guilt, a heavy chain,
In the city’s madness, he felt the strain.

Subways rattle, serpents of steel,
Beneath the city’s crumbling keel.
Perils lurking in every bend,
As the music fades, nearing the end.

When the music’s over, turn out the lights,
In the city's heart, a silent fight.
Hope and despair, a tangled dance,
In the chaos, a fleeting chance.

Yet in the grime, a flower grows,
From the seeds of peace, a wind that blows.
Hippie hearts and dreams of love,
In the darkest night, stars above.

Gotham’s tale, Airbaja sighs,
In the end, we laugh, we cry.
When the music’s over, we'll still strive,
In the city's pulse, we are alive.

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