If I lived here, or close to here, each day
No seeds of sudden Wonder would be sown
I'd curse the sky above for being Gray.
I'd be annoyed, and not excited, to
Slip by a sudden crowd upon the street
And when I had a thousand things to do
The slow bus speed would no longer be neat.
If I had needs that were not being met
I'd be as frustrated as I am now
At home; the bustle would not be, I bet,
Sufficient to not let me have a cow.
But since I am a visitor, I'll squeeze
The joy from what for living is dis-ease.
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