Who's peeking through my window? That city on the wall
Where everyone's watching, waiting to swamp me in the thrall
of blacks and white under the alchemist’s shawl
packed into sandwich bags for the lunchtime dope crawl

And it's red and brown and gold and
trees. What remains is the idea of the bluebird fiending
shaking like a kid wetting the bed for potpourri
reminding him of the scent of being a moldering junkie
A quarter-life parolee with a bachelor's degree
Though the fine arts have been finer to Club Dostoevsky

But Chekov, I'm Pushkin to Brodsky through,
and Tolstoy in the mood for a Hugo point of view

Pas de deux with Ingrid Bergman, hey, my house is white too
They might always have Paris, but I bogart all the honeydews