I sing America from Frankford
      Commonly called 'home of the 'trem',
      where the buses fly down the street, almost crashing into feral children

Where the scent of not-so-soft delicious pretzels are ubiquitous as it
soars through the streets like an airplane

     Where the impudent teenagers scream at night
      sounding like an angry choir

Where elderly widows rise gardens out of damaged bushes and dead grass

        Tiny un-trimmed lawns are a can of tuna for stray cats

Where row homes cover tiny streets connect everyone
causing too much closeness

       Where gum coated pavements are welcome mats to the running feet
       running to catch their bus

Where cop cars fly down the streets, providing the next scene for the new Fast and Furious

      Where at night, the constant sirens echo in the night sky
       piercing through my ears

But in the end, I wouldn't want to be anywhere
but here.