CHEYENNE

                                      My city,
                                       You are a happy place at 6 a.m.,
                                       Gold dome rising into the pure sky.
                                       Why is it that when I come back
                                       Onto the streets at 11,
                                        I find nothing but money and sadness
                                       And death in the air?
                                       Surely it is not Time itself
                                       That takes away morning's freeddom?
                                       No, it is men--
                                       And their filthy ideas,
                                       Their dirty hands, their usury, their poverty
                                       In the midst of plenty.
                                       Men, when will you let in
                                       The riches that surround you?
                                       When will you take off your rags?
                                       When will you see your own bodies' kingdoms?
                                       When will you let your city shine?

                                         previous page            next page