The poets down here don't write nothing at all, they just stand back and let it all be.

As promised here, the last photos of my summer. These are from August.

Man, there's an opera out on the turnpike

There's a ballet being fought out in the alley

Until the local cops, cherry top, rips this holy night

The streets alive as secret debts are paid

Contacts made, they vanished unseen

Kids flash guitars just like switch-blades

Hustling for the record machine

The hungry and the hunted explode into rock and roll bands 

that face off against each other out in the street

Down in Jungleland

-Jungleland, Bruce Springsteen