Alone,
a hero to some,
yes, just one,
a man with a telepathic mind and a gun,
in dismal places,
people with darkened ways,
waifs and strays,
loitering on manic days in the city,
as people with grim faces,
speed in frantic races, in the small spacecraft,
that speed through the alleyways,
trying to avoid the bullets,
from those inebriated intoxicated wasters,
those with drunken ways and ugly faces,
In Futura,
In Futura city, there is no pity,
just agony and pain,
and violence and devastation,
and anger and frustration on the way,
on the way to collect,
to collect pay,
and body armour,
and orders to kill,
whilst chewing on a pill,
trying not to be a statistic to those psychopaths who will kill at will,
after shooting you out of the sky,
and who drink their victims blood for a thrill.