Old Town
By Chameleon
Old Town bricks, spread like a sheet. The fame, the glory, The woes, the worries, Lay black at my feet. They flow away from the square, Over the river, With saintly procession, Into the castle's care. They surround the good king Wencenslas, and fill his rivers With other feet, Feet not of my doing. Here feet leave no footprints on the bricks, Rather, brickprints are left on feet. Written February 13th, 2002 © on Feb 12 2002 04:42 PM PST 0 • 10
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"Old Town bricks, spread like a sheet...."