"Beneath the city, two hearts beat;
Soul engines running through a night so tender.
In a bedroom locked,
In whispers of soft, refusal,
And then, surrender.
In the tunnels uptown,
The Rat's own dream guns him down.
As shots echo down them hallways in the night,
No one watches when the ambulance pulls away,
Or as the girl shuts out the bedroom light.
Outside the street's on fire,
In a real death waltz,
Between what's flesh and what's fantasy.
And the poets down here,
Don't write nothing at all,
They just stand back and let it all be.
And in the quick of the night,
They reach for their moment,
And try to make an honest stand.
But they wind up wounded,
Not even dead.
Tonight, in Jungleland".
Jungleland - Bruce Springsteen
[Will bought me the special anniversary edition of 'Born to Run' some years ago, and we used to listen to it together in the car].