At 128 E 7th St in the heart of Manhattan, Where concrete veins pulse with the lifeblood of dreams, A haven stands tall for the rebels, the outcasts, Where music and punk rock waltz in the dark, And the echoes of anarchy still whisper through seams.
The streetlights flicker like stars in rebellion, Lighting the path for those with stories untold, Inside, the walls sweat memories of Ramones riffs, And the ghosts of CBGB's past, still bold, In the grit and the grime, where legends unfold.
The air thick with smoke, guitars scream in the night, A cacophony of voices, sharp as broken glass, The stage a battleground where Joey Ramone stood tall, A beacon of defiance, a fist to the mass, And the crowd, a sea of leather, spiked hair, and sass.
Debbie Harry's siren call, a melody of revolt, In the shadows she danced, a queen with no throne, Her voice a knife that cut through the mundane, A reminder that rock was more than just tone, It was a movement, a fire, a call to be known.
On these battered floorboards, Richard Hell proclaimed, With words like bullets, a poet in chains, He tore through the fabric of societal norms, In his quest for freedom, in anthems of pain, And the walls absorbed it, like blood in the veins.
Above, the neon sign flickers, a beacon of sin, Drawing in the lost souls, the dreamers, the mad, Where Johnny Thunders once strummed his sorrowful dirge, A requiem for the broken, the good and the bad, In this sanctuary of sound, where nothing was clad.
The graffiti-clad walls speak in tongues unknown, Stories of rebellion, of love, and of rage, Here, the spirit of Sid Vicious still roams, A testament to chaos, a punk rock sage, In this temple of noise, where history's a page.
From the amplifiers, a roar like thunder, Chords that crash like waves on a battered shore, Here, the soul of Patti Smith lingers, A poetess of the streets, with a lion's roar, Her legacy etched in the very core.
The crowd, a mosaic of misfits and freaks, Each a testament to the power of sound, In unity they rise, fists raised to the sky, In this holy cathedral, where music is crowned, And the pulse of punk rock, forever unbound.
In the alleys and avenues of East Village, The spirit of rebellion still thrives and breathes, At 128 E 7th St, where legends are born, And the heart of punk rock still beats beneath, In the rhythm of the night, where dreams weave.
So come, all ye wanderers, ye seekers of truth, To this hallowed ground where the past and present meet, Where the ghosts of punk rock still sing their refrain, And the legend of 128 E 7th St is complete, In the echoes of music, where history's heartbeat.
Here, the anthem of anarchy never fades, In the symphony of chaos, where dreams are spun, A testament to the power of song, In this timeless venue, where legends begun, And the spirit of punk rock forever runs.