Swing low, sweet crane
in spirit and truth, sci-fi named.
Bring the machines, the last two years
they've pushed so much dirt.
Hollow out the city,
fill it with rubble,
pound that into paste.
I'll recall days under the bridge, watching out
keeping my hood tight to my hair, soaked
through to my socks. I'll recall the
eyesores replaced with eyesores.
I will not try to stop you,
growth or death, growth or death
but will tell the stories to my sons
of the growth and death of corners.