There goes the pop shop,

on the corner of 42nd

with pop rocks,

where the Candy Lady beckons

in flip-flops

 

Her favorite beat, to cook-out meat,

who laughs at me, with two left feet

(Now she's gone.)

 

Now, there goes the empty lot

Where we all grew up, or not

Back when we used to lick

snot, and play hopscotch

and say, I wonder, does he like me,

or not?

 

There goes the resilience

and the broke asphalt

The personality, the bang,

and the fifty cent pop

 

Oh no, there goes the vibrant soul!

Trampled, pissed on, yellow-snowed

Glory, the things people will try to own

My Home, but not alone

ET to phone, my old block towed

feeling like the twilight zone

 

Missa pro defunctis -

a eulogy, for punk kids

who grew up in this part of town

and wore this street like a crown

who can't afford a down payment now

 

Here lies My neighborhood,

May it rest in pieces.