King of the Queen City

Vacant furloughed foundries

Corpses of great industry

Among Victorian tree-

Houses and towers concrete

Endless suburban expanse

And mirror dwellings line-dance

From one another they stand

Only ten feet in distance

Together they shut windows

As November carries snow

Home is where the heart will grow

Weary-strong of winter’s throes

Rusted, hardened, drinking folk

Have long outlasted the cold

A man come from Buffalo,

Or, the truest soul you know

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