My candle burns at both ends;
  It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
  It gives a lovely light!

Searching my heart for its true sorrow,
  This is the thing I find to be:
That I am weary of words and people,
  Sick of the city, wanting the sea;

Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness
  Of the strong wind and shattered spray;
Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound
  Of the big surf that breaks all day.

Always before about my dooryard,
  Marking the reach of the winter sea,
Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood,
  Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea;

Always I climbed the wave at morning,
  Shook the sand from my shoes at night,
That now am caught beneath great buildings,
  Stricken with noise, confused with light.

If I could hear the green piles groaning
  Under the windy wooden piers,
See once again the bobbing barrels,
  And the black sticks that fence the weirs,

If I could see the weedy mussels
  Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls,
Hear once again the hungry crying
  Overhead, of the wheeling gulls,

Feel once again the shanty straining
  Under the turning of the tide,
Fear once again the rising freshet,
  Dread the bell in the fog outside,—

I should be happy,—that was happy
  All day long on the coast of Maine!
I have a need to hold and handle
  Shells and anchors and ships again!

I should be happy, that am happy
  Never at all since I came here.
I am too long away from water.
  I have a need of water near.

this is the dwelling where wind is a bell and a beacon for death.
where youthful pursuit is punctured by family names or famine of fortune.
boys in bands buoyed by Onos and shared women.
lawyer fathers and social ***** mothers whose children are forbidden to **** up.
one street reserved and smothered by talking townsmen
whose belligerent brides keep tabs on their fellow middle-aged malicious
minded low-lifes
engorged in gossip are the parading fat men who rise early to feed off ones business capital tragedies
****** shortcomings of the stuck and single prey off tweens tweeting of body glitter and b-cups.
clique chick coquettes play house with their shiny image seeking male counterparts
who sing songs of their leather faced lady friends with plastic claws they now admit they would never marry
antagonizing cute couples secretly copulating with former loves' lust
only to mingle with conspirators molding to dominant thought
once a waitress always a waitress
with overdrawn bragging rights and unemployment checks
serving snobs like themselves who sip savignon
self-righteous polo popping perverts accompanying their prized play things
who join the charles river emigrants and stale french pastries
scouting the waste colored palace of prejudice.
now blades of winter draw months of blue blood
bringing forth frozen thoughts slowly dripping onto thawing skin.
another warm summer sun  forthcoming
foreshadowed by this wind-chafing forlornness.
though i will fall in love again
and bridge rats will always be kings.