Like the norm,
All appears even and calm.
The street as always,
Harboring people who try to make ways.
With noise like jets,
Many strive for little to get.
The class struggle killing,
Opportunity to live healing.
All seeking for better,
Non noticing the unprocessed butter.
Even the fingerlings claim to know all,
While those with the knowledge grow tall.
It’s still our crib,
Harboring us and our crews
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