I've come upon a peaking hill
At the end of revolutionary road
A former scenic piddle post
Where Rockefeller was not alone
I realize that what I smell
Is not a freedom pie
But rather some silken yarn
Of burned-out baby hope
Wound tightly round my bones.

The Oak admit on Lamberton Ledge
Where I sit and dangle my boots
And watch through blue eyes asunder
From astern the welling white design
Through the borderland sloping down
Tracking the metropolitan smog
Through the leafy paddles
Dodging the dissolute sun
And there in a ring of concertina
A little party without love
Talking in shackled lore
And pining for the streets unbound
Where once they bandied paper-sacked
And settled-down in broken grass
And slept a malt liquor smile.
It's close enough for me to
Join this urban undergrowth
Upon their sodden path
Where the currency of cigarettes
Will guide me by and by

Payment one will break my toe
And the interest take the rest
And when the dirty whore
Cries inside my soul
I'll know I've lost my stock and trade
And freedom sits at my door.