<font color="red">Taciturnity's Toy Town</font>

It is these hours That few words are spoken The lurking tall towers Confounded by no one looking Stillness among the waves Frighten the infants up town The crashing of camouflaged caves And the blunder of frowns The beacon of revelation Overwhelm the township's thoughts Coaches haul the impatient The cessation of sound never fought Empty cries in dark, cold cellars Pierce the vacant, unadorned air Parched voices of workinge tellers Divert tea parties on handmade chairs Strangers spit thirst against side streets And deserted drunkards dance in monsoons Affinity at the soles of quick-paced feet As pristine chapels hum cheap-sounding tunes Subtle semaphores ceasing to exist At the fault of those who never stop to ask A town degenerating at the obstruction of its own fist Until it is too late, and all will be in the past.