Where bells and whistles ring

They gather in opportune mounds

With mourning routinely displayed at the sound.

Cleanly attaching a hand to their hearts

And eyelids angled towards the ground.

To sing the solemn hymn as masses fallen

With inability to see the piece as whole.

Knowing only the following lonely line.

This homely rhyme that leaves some holes in time

But always presses forth with absolute-like force.

And soon the moon is set.

They finish up the chorus left

And none can hear the virtuoso voice of Joyce

Or the earth-rattling baritone of Bob Malone.

Somewhere it all blended into middle moans

And you could see the requiem bring all of them to cry

As they commuted home to fill the gaps inside.

The passion of a city died...

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