The roil of so many pigeons –
Forgive us, and also ask our names.
Dark city with a dangerous cliff
And encroaching bald spot,
I of five hundred horsepower
Wail your traditional song.
Your streetwalkers do no fear
Me, and your floodgates wave “hello”
To the bus of tourists passing through.
Ah, a runner has taken root.
An ice cream cone slope droops
With melancholy, or is it something else?
Do not ask me, says the brave city.
Any minute now, I will need a vacation.