Sly town stretches along the sea,
backed by sacred mountains.
And amid shabby, city streets
sits a broken fountain.
And when the church bells peal at dusk,
the drunk, they sing out loud.
And all the robbers and the thieves
slip through the gathered crowds.
Pockets are picked and watches slipped
from wrists of the hapless.
On painted women, gooseflesh shows -
their tops low and backless.
The dreamers reach to seize a coin
to pitch in the fountain.
Few direct wishes or appeals
to that ancient mountain.
