WATCHFUL, grave, he sits astride his horse, Draped with his rubber poncho, in the rain; He speaks the pungent lingo of "The Force," And those who try to bluff him, try in vain. Inured to every mood of fool and crank, Shrewdly and sternly all the crowd he cons: The rain drips down his horse's shining flank, A figure nobly fit for sculptor's bronze. O knight commander of our city stress, Little you know how picturesque you are! We hear you cry to drivers who transgress: "@3Say, that's a helva place to park your car!@1" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PRAYER FOR A CITY CHILD by DOROTHY P. ALBAUGH A NEW PILGRIMAGE: 22 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT COME SI QUANDO by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES KLAMATH SUMMER by VIRGINIA WHITE BROWN TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 4. THE DREAM GOES BY by EDWARD CARPENTER |