I’m the king of the skyline, crown of neon and rust,
throne on a rooftop where the subway sighs like a busted lung.
I count my scars in graffiti, each tag a knight that bled for me;
my scepter’s a rusted antenna conducting midnight electricity.
Below, the avenues bow in sodium light,
rows of yellow jesters kneel, taxis blink in fright.
I speak once—echoes riot, bricks answer back with flame;
one whisper and the whole damn city remembers my name.
I rule without mercy, yet love every shattered street,
because broken concrete’s the only crown that’ll never cheat.