Oye, Robert!

In the dead of night these hoods
ain’t got any snowy woods
our trees are few and far between
no pleasant horses to be spoken to
or seen

see, the cops don’t visit in between
the hours of dawn or dusk
we’re on our own, less we really make a fuss

no neighbors to wonder
whether or not my visit was a blunder
the only bells are always broken
from all the guns that have been smokin

we use cards now instead of a tokens
to travel streets, and before I sleep
I too have hard promises to keep
these miles though seem to creep by
when I walk I need to keep an eye

on the other stalkers of the jungle
just as dark and just as deep
they’re just waiting to catch me reading
and all my words will then be bleeding

over your white and precious snow
only ashes left to show
how the harsh north wind conquers slow
this landscape drawn by a frosted glow.