you've got funds available
in a shining city
and look, the calendar has turned
over, and it seems to be a new year.
the docks stink, heavy with fish, or crab,
or whatever they net. the throng:
workers will work and the police
will, hm, do what it is they do. (a work
of a sort, I suppose) and the capitol hill
friends will mill about and stack papers
and have dinner parties, I believe. (my invite
must still be in the mail) and you--
why you've got funds available
and the world is your oyster.
so, sir, can you spare a dollar?