Oh I have stayed too long with this mistress,
over long in her arms have I lain.
She no longer coos to console me.
Her charms now seem sweaty and plain.

Once long ago she wooed me
with a song pledging her love and her heart;
she sang of parades of beautiful people,
while she strummed on a golden harp.

Neon signs, winking lights, tinted windows,
that seemed so dazzling and happy before
now show to me my mistress, who looks
like a painted and gaudy old whore.

I've seen the plastic and cement canyons
whose concrete walls cover skeletons of steel,
and the grimy faced people who wait there
for Sysiphus to return from the hill.

Sirens go screaming thru these canyons
like vultures on carrion scent,
singing the song of the City,
telling of free hands never taken nor lent.

I long for the song of the open field
where the harmony of land and sky
is never muted by smog or the factory whistle,
where the rhythm of nature is the binding tie.

Yet,here I lay passive in the arms of my mistress,
knowing full well the price of delay,
Will I leap from her bed without paying too dearly
or must I stay and finish her portrait in gray?