High Clouds Over Philly
With Apologies To Jerry Blavat
It isn’t the statue of Rocky,
Or that bell with the noteworthy crack.
It’s not the fraternal affection,
Or the bird crap on Billy Penn’s hat.
It isn’t a cheese steak wid onions,
Or a hoagie from Terminal Market.
It’s not a soft pretzel with mustard,
Or a Tastykake dropped on the carpet.
It’s that head shop on South Street;
The one where all the hippies meet,
Where the dancing is elite.
It’s the hippest street in town.
Oh, baby!
Inhale the aroma. Savor the nectar.
It’s less like a Domino, and more like a Checker.
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