You are all honkeys and saps

Perpetual motion as per purgatory.  Poetry of an imperfect city.  Operational repairs pursuing a smooth percussion, pressed against a ruling class of rhythm.  Rubble, that fat jugular of wealth.  Green spaces laced through stacks and renovation, graceless ragged grass.  Peaceful impurities.  Each cold lapsing paradiddle.  Collapsing, palsied tongue.  Part ways now son.  Your work is never done.  Split vicious lips, I think you get the picture.  No use waiting for them to pronounce my sentence.  I want desperately to read the lolling strays and uncut lawns as unbridled and unhurried beauty.  But I know well enough the real message.  You would stop whimpering if you ever found out that the hero who is never coming never was there to begin with.  That there is nothing above this.