Hey, nonny, nonny. Hey
NONNY, NONNY, NOW
I'm calling to YOU, from the STREET -
Hauling MY load, hauling YOUR LOAD,
Hauling THAT load, on that ROAD
That PAVE -
MENT! From your cradle
your GRAVE tent,
From Rosy Morn to Purpled EVE
On that macadam, that conCRETE -
That way from houses, hospitals, and factories
To offices, stores, chapels, and morgues
Halls of ConGRESS and jails
Palaces, cemeteries, and fields of
Wind Waving WHEAT! That path to get the
things, WE, no longer being hunter-gatherers, EAT! That
"That State ______, that great ______"
That "North to Alaska",
"Flying down to Rio",
"L.A., N.Y.(C), and it's all the same ______."
Littered by many, kept tidy by some,
Who like everything ribbon-wrapped, and NEAT! That
no-place-to-be-in-the-sweltering- HEAT! That slippery, sliding,
slick in the SLEET! That party where we'd all
like to MEET! In a big, boogie-woogie
With a bowlegging, back- BEAT! That long and winding
The END of which waits for us all to GREET! THAT time is
For us not to be dis- CRETE!
Can't you here the soft-shoe
Step of THOSE tender FEET, In
theEVER-livingTREE Tops along
each and everyFLEET STREET?
Back in the city
Nothing is quite so pretty.
In fact, it's downright gritty!
With the shuddering thud of those infernal jack-hammers,
With cries of innocent blood forgotten in dark "slammers",
With kids rapping like a stud, totin' their "boom-box-jammers",
Clanging like jay-birds in the trees,
Banging the beat of their dis-ease,
Hanging out on summer stoops,
Wondering why so many who look so caged,
In their sky-Scr-ra-ping stacks of coops,
Move along sidewalks with automatic airs,
To limos, buses, cars, taxis, and subway/elevated stairs,
Like they're hopping through HOOPS
"...of real fire!"
(as opposed to the metaphorical variety
to which bards and troubadors aspire...)
Definitely not houses.
To welcome strange, peculiar faces.
That disappearance of farmer's stalls
(What, with the coming of the malls...)
Where one could have even live pullets
THAT SUDDEN THOUGHT OF SNIPER'S BULLETS!!!
Although the thought
When you live between the gutters and the curbs
Of the cities, instead of out in the sub-urbs,
Where the HORSE has gotten STUCK
Behind the CART of epiphany -
That flash without warning of any kind,
That notion in the collective mind,
That HOME is where you find
So, why is anyone
Written 1989, this
Copyright 2000 Jesse Slokum