It is decommissioned, off-limits, outright verboten, Yet is traversed nonetheless, Its patrons a mix of the pruriently curious, The thrill-seeker, the merely woebegone.
It is undeniable, when in the embrace of the great pipe organ At the venerable old Episcopal church on Third Street, Or wholly encircled by Tiffany-issue stained glass
We do not, perhaps, expect the very sky To descend upon us, all chunks and wedges As it did upon the simple, deluded chick
Bovine-like, we shall meet our deaths (Such is the scythe the reaper wields) No matter that the final breaths
One quickly learns to fall and roll, (The pratfall is his stock in trade) But hard surfaces take their toll,
Well, the maps were quite ghastly, you know; We’d assumed the Frogs would have a pleasure cruise, All baguettes and brioche, up the straits.
They fall upon us over the spillways of time, Burbling at us through some Radio Free Nostalgia Courtesy of some college station sitting at the far left of the dial Or streaky CDs at the rear of some forlorn shelf,