For men of a certain age,
who recall when  Emma Peel
was all the rage.
No one can  ever take her place;
those dangerous curves, her beautiful face.
Who could forget
the scent of  her perfume and leather?

It was easy to Love you, Columbia,
When you were young and fair.
Then opportunity was boundless;
Your land was rich beyond compare.

True you were born in conflict
And the years were not always kind.
Some say they have cause to hate you;
That to injustice you’ve been blind.

Evil men have harmed you
With their crass cupidity.
This current crop of “leaders”
Blunder repeatedly.

You do not stand as tall and strong
As when I met your first.
I see worry lines around your eyes
This year has been the worst.

Still, with all your imperfections,
None could take the place of you.
You still can take my breath away
Draped in Red white and blue.

On this unholy Pentecost
I see the tongues of fire rise
From small businesses downtown
and, just like that , a city dies..

The Acolytes of Anarchy
draw inspiration from despair
They break the windows, rob the place
then torch each store without a care.

The writings on St. Patrick’s walls
are unholy and profane.
Over at St. John Divine
The N.Y.F.D fights the flames.

Further down at Union Square
Violence flares with fading light;
Broken plate glass in the street
Bears  witness to this Krystallnacht.


Is this how a great city dies?
First came a plague and now the sack.
Our Mayor is a weak- kneed progressive,
He plucks his lyre as things get hot.

(Things aren't always what they seem,
and the same goes for people.)

It's a commonly held belief,
a theory by many supposed,
that inside every fat person
a thin person's enclosed.

And it's often been said before
(though that doesn't make it less truth)
that inside many a middle-aged man
beats the heart of a passionate youth.

A girl who appears just a butterfly
may deep down be a slave to her duty;
and one with the plainest exterior
may be blessed with a soul full of beauty.

But here is another hypothesis
I'd respectfully like to suggest
- if no-one has any objection -
that might take up its place with the rest.

If I'd courage to match my conviction
I might stand on the table and shout,
but it's this. . . . Inside every introvert
there's an extrovert trying to get out.

Roy Horn always favored big cats.
He put them in all of his acts.
But then Manticore,
who thought Roy was a bore,
said “Enough” and then Roy was just snacks.

She only wanted to walk freely,
or gallop through a valley
and feel the wind in her hair.
To camp by a stream and eat lembas
and wild roots.  Wander here and there
with Feanor’s sons, hunt wild boar, and drink
and laugh.
She would cast away the distaff.

But freedom for a woman can be a fragile thing,
beautiful and brief as a moth’s wing.
Eol, the Dark Elf, dwelt in shadow, in Nan Elmoth.
He saw Aredhel, alone and lost, and desired her, to betroth.

She had no choice
but to seek help at a stranger’s door.
And then she had choice no more.

Captivity breaks weaker hearts.
But Aredhel was Elven, and of Finwe’s line.
She bided time. She worked her womanly arts.
She raised a son, and loved him,
and told him stories of fair Gondolin.
When chance arrived, they broke free
and fled West, to the fair city.
Eol, enraged, pursued them,
and the words of Curufin stung him.
He would have killed his only son
for his defiance, but fate denied him
this pyrrhic victory.
Maeglin lived, and watched his father
die, as he stood by, free.

Maeglin—his father’s son—desired one
who loved him not. In reckless despair, he traveled too far,
and Morgoth preyed on his shame and desire.
It was not hard to turn Maeglin traitor and liar.
But no reward had Maeglin in this life--
never did he take fair Idril to wife.

Aredhel died to save her son, not knowing
he would be the one
to bring ruin on the Elven city.
Maeglin (his father’s son) had no kindness nor pity.  
He revealed the secret path
to Morgoth (his likeness in envy and in wrath).
And in the end, all fell: Gondolin, Nargothrond
and Doriath.