Clacking upwards to the
Elevated station
Commuting through the glory of working Queens
The Engine of an ungrateful city
The workhorse by choice
And sleeping giant
Screaming steaming vents
In the empty yards where dogs stand bent,
Stacks of cannibalized cars
Jumbled together in wayward piles
Swayed stacks no longer aligned
Disobeying the orders of
Modern times
Proud of our dirty cousin borough,
With heaps of car parts
Near where the starts dine
At the gleaming grassy field.
With a million carved out spaces
For the legion of weary faces
Coming home again to Queens
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