On the Cobblestones of Broadway by Patrick Hopkins
It's a muggy Monday night; a blanket of clouds keeps in the heat,
A few cars drive up and down a time-worn downtown street.
Trees sway gently in the breeze, no gale-force winds to fight;
Little else is moving along Broadway tonight.
An old man somehow manages to mar the serenity;
A bottle of Colt 45 in his hand, his words are laced with obscenity.
Hate is on his mind, his heart has much to say,
But his words fall like silent raindrops on the cobblestones of Broadway...
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