In old time in Wabash Street tavern,
was silent as Sorrow’s nephew drowning,
bubbles rising through glasses along long bar.
Chair might shift, wood scrape on wood,
cash register once in while go dja-tinngg as
car go by in street outside, or alley.
Now, over bar, three TV screen launch
salvo after salvo stuttering flash,
cannèd so-call music scream and pound,
no one cannot talk no more, nor
peaceful drown, nor could hear tank go by
in street. Or stop and wheel at door.
