Oh where is the city which I would adore,
As much as this heaven; the bacchic galore?
Oh where on the planet would acidly wine,
Be worshiped and titled: “Oh honey of mine!”?
There is tiny stream that riches the city,
It isn’t that pure. That is kind of pity.
The buildings as such are old and forgotten,
Thought everything’s brown but nothing is rotten.
Dichotomy falls as you march the street,
For all you may see and all you might meet.
Prepare yourself pilgrim for you are to see,
The beautiful city Shentjernej can be!
The wind blows to passer the welcoming treat,
and bydance the leaves of the yellow and brown,
the bell of saint Jerry is giving the beat,
dum dum, dum dum the heart beat of town.
Where you’re from it matters me not,
Where you’re going is not my concern,
The only of answers which here people sought,
is which drink your belly does currently yearn.
Your right nostril catches familiar tones,
the father to puke, to madness a brother,
the alcoholy enters your body, your bones,
and your brains yell out:” despicable smother!”.
The mist in the brains, when you meet the vine,
The mist on the view, when you meet the street,
Through your eyes a man, to others a swine,
Now you know the town. Its essence you greet.
I’ve touched other place, looked it from all sides,
whilst it was mocking old saint Jerry’s bell.
With reasonable face, on progress it rides.
But where are you heading so fast and so well?
Copyright © Peter Rangus | Year Posted 2015
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