In the heart of the city's pulse,
Where signs flash and people hustle,
There’s an echo of old scenes,
Of zines and dreams, unseen schemes.

The pavement sings with boot soles,
Each step a rhythm, each one whole.
From the punk house to the street,
The DIY spirit never retreats.

In alleys where the night breathes deep,
Voices rise, in chorus keep:
“We build what we need, no moan,
No waiting for someone else’s throne.”

Riot grrrls with fists up high,
Not backing down, not saying bye.
“Your system's broke, it's clear to see,
We won't let you silence us, or be.”

The BBS hums with shared codes,
Secret handshakes and underground modes.
Links to shows, flyers to paste,
A network of hearts in a fast-paced chase.

In the glow of CRT screens aglow,
Conversations weave back and forth, slow.
“Who’s got supplies? Who’s on call?
We’re all each other's first line of wall.”

From the protest stage to the coffee shop chat,
The spirit moves, it’s never flat.
“No more waiting for permission slips,
If we want change, we gotta chip in chips.”

DIY ethics guide us through,
In a world where institutions are few.
“We build what we need, with our own hands,
This is how we keep each other safe and sound.”

-- CINDER
"diy doesn't mean disorganized."
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