the jazzers have been talking their horns for weeks,
and no ones been listening,
this city always sleeps.
and the whole worlds wailing on their horns,
this city always, always sleeps.
sunday afternoon, and some corner coffee shop,
neon golden hipster elites,
this century has still got the beat,
this century has still got the beat.
some college kid reads bukowski the first time.
he gets it.
he really gets it.
yeah so he's writing so as not to go insane.
man. i'm insane,
i'm the only insane person on the planet who'll admit to it.
they should lock me up,
but man just give me a pen and paper,
give me a marker, i'll write the walls down.
this century has got technology.
silver screens, whirring machines,
this century has still got the beat.
this century has got hate,
the gays are still in hiding,
hiding in plain view,
for fear of the hate,
for fear,
someday they'll march on washington,
washington will feel the beat,
washington will feel the fear,
washington will feel ten thousand,
washington will fear the beat,
this century will hold onto the beat.
the hipsters all gather on the street corners,
they just sit around,
they'll listen to the city,
like they're the only ones who can hear it,
ahh but they certainly aren't
the runners, screamers, low downs, and sometimes the high ups
though they rarely take the time to bend down
yes even sometimes the highups can hear the city,
but the hipsters, in dark designer jeans,
with their finger on the pulse,
as if to plug the whole,
thats spewing the blood,
draining the city dry,
they think they're the only ones.
the walkers, talkers and dreamers hear too,
in varyin shades of color,
but their are listeners.
listeners keep the beat.
even when this city,
in its constant sleep,
even when it weeps,
they make sure,
this century has still got the beat.
