I guess it’s so, the rows of streets paved at our feet
Black tar seas, summer’s heat provides the street
The shoe and sun and shallow ***,
Bottles and bottles branding the sill
To help the soul: the full of swill.
Nine and a half sometimes a quarter
Into machines they call a “disorder”.
And to no prevail the summer will hail
A day of peace and a promise of more,
But the day is young and night to old.
And so turn with seared toe and heel
From the papers of tomorrow myself I’ll peel.