modern man, no. 2

some where on the road to 4th street
we can dabble in she-bop-bop
find a chorus in those thuggish fellas
though they're tenors one and all

candy-red will be our color
custom made between the avenues
i have a nimble hand for city art
and will lead this little band into the Times

they make their fashion around their knees
and in a way not fit for family publications
so we'll stop along the way, round 7th
take a seat and play at censors

there is a certain aura, about alleyways
and lunatics, and stories left in stains
unknowable splotches like a walk of fame
that have me hopping and scotching

don't let your toes carry these tales
along, even if they fit somehow
into your baggage, into your empty pockets
it's best to leave them as they lie

i think you're just a corn boy, green-eyed
truant and chased by your curious shadow
but you've a baritone i find unnerving
so i will shine you up, my village toy

long strides will carry us, like soldiers
and our hard listening may keep the uniforms
at bay, may keep the downtown lads
off-key, rumbling out where they belong

sunday in the city, relished with some
saturday night sins, dogged by some
friday night liquor, doubled down
by thursday night dinner in queens

here we are, on the road to 4th street
with some little time for salsa dancing
i don't remember why the day goes dark
surely these misplaced bruises

are by versace
?