My City

I sit twenty stories,
Above city glories,
On a picnic bench of pine.
I hear all the laughs,
I hear all the cries,
Oh what a city of mine.

The lights keep on flashing,
The music keeps thrashing,
If you're wise to what you must hear.
It has seen many woes,
And many great foes,
But this city of mine doesn't fear.

It feels every tear,
In its old concrete hair,
And it bravely boasts of its scars.
And though it runs wild,
Its eyes shine with guile,
This city of mine in the stars.

So I set my head down,
On this old bench of brown,
And I feel the cold winter rain.
I start to drift off,
And with a shrill cough,
I am one with the city again.