By A.Z. Foreman
Away from piers the waters pity,
Away from mobs that maul the streets
The last of the police retreats.
The prison empties to the city.
The senile generals wish no end
As their pubescent armies war.
Every professor has a whore
Or an imaginary friend.
The cleric bleeds on his white collar
For one last clerical mistake.
The bloodied boys feel markets shake
The value from a killed clerk's dollar.
The city's final strippers shill
A little poon for bread and booze
From listless men whose mitts peruse
A war-map of the Bronx until
The stone-old torch called liberty
Cracks from the statue's infirm grip
And the millennial waters rip
The rotten pier outright to sea.