They’re ripping up the street again,
This is something that never ends.
I’m watching them working
From my window seat.
A crew of guys filling in a trench,
Dirt, stones, and now concrete,
They had stripped the earth,
Torn away her asphalt skirt,
What are they fixing today?
Always something happens on this street,
Always something happening to this street.
Dust swirls into the air,
Dust swirls everywhere.
And people say cigarettes stink.
Breathe this junk in, my friend.
You’ll never complain again.
But you’ll cough, you’ll choke,
You’ll spit without end,
Maybe do a little creative cursing, too
As these work crews do their job,
Fixing our fair city over, and over, again.
Published in Medicinal Purposes