As the blossoms bloom,
On this starry filled night,
Oil lamps flicker through streets,
For shambles lay bare scenic,
Streets fill in euphoric chaos
as this used to be the capital
Of a much more wonderful time.

Frolicking in streets,
Silhouettes follow in sync,
Linking arms and spinning,
Strong ale, bitter sweet cocktails,
Not a singular frown in sight.

Drunken ghost hunting,
Finding only the bottom,
Of an empty glass,
Ambience of undescribable wonders.

Even now on starry nights,
As I walk through the streets,
I still see silhouettes,
Of what once was,
York,
Is a magical place to be.