In their concrete landscapes,
I am cultivating a green thumb,
A purple heart, an orange heat
Alighting the pygmy watertower.
This is no home for a long-hair boy.
They tax me, they chastise me
For playing with their ruddy reins.
The funnel-torn lakes of home
Are spinning and ripping away
From my busy, ant-like hands.
The watertower burns like a beacon.
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