Oh, Hail New Jersey,
Don-- Hail, My Don, New Jersey,
Metro and Retro, spilling soda
and stains that look like blood
with a touch of hate that slips
from the tongue,
and I hail, New Jersey,
where I fell asleep at 20
and woke in 1963,

The sun must've followed a fellow--
fell far from free fair carts--
luncheons, lunch ins, lunch outs
stand in--sit ins--stand ups,
carry ins--i'm carrying on,
they give you a pen
to write your own order,
and this particular order
was no strange order,
in no particular order
"a cheese-steak, and water,
m'am, when you get the chance,
I'll be sitting by the window,"
to feel the breeze blow
or to see the pale folk
hide from the shade
where the sun don't glow
on the ghost folk

And my what a breeze blew
the napkins flew clear off the streets
and the gutters cleared
straight up and snaked themselves clean
probed by a stake, territorial crest
like a wave break---wrist flicking
point taken

A meal grew cold,
as the service,
decided not to serve
and the stand still
stood still
and even the ghosts
held their breath
as the the sun hung,
and tanned this man
worse than any of these fellas
decided to

And hailed a cab
to leave the scene,
in good old new jersey,
9 years after a millenium,
and they should've just beaten me.