Where the buskers sing in the darkness Manhattan puts on a show ,
The subways quiet and there’s hesitation there where ever you go.
Happy is the busker content with the watchers there who applaud ,
Krishna’s arrive on cue asking people what colour is God .
As far as I see God is free to be any colour you like .
The busker in deep inner space has no need to plug in his mic .
He is in a New York State of mind hooked up on flower power .
The subway is full of people and it’s now even the rush hour .
Tourists stand by scratching bristles on the end of their open jaw .
The busker sings a song about a man with the cold steel claw .
Its Manhattan shut down . Daily life skids into Helter Skelter .
Dancing on yellow taxis , the massive crowd all run for shelter .
On the sidewalks of Manhattan life falls through the cracks of the kerbs
The sky is black but somewhere out there life stirs out in the suburbs.
It is August and September is just around the corner there .
The busker sings on a dark corner but does anybody care ?