Sometimes at night,
the beerbottles get the idea,
to drink themselves out.

There is no proof of that,
but they tumble out of the shaft,
and open one another,
saying cheers and drink
to the go no more.

No one has ever seen it,
when they talk about,
the malt and the hop,
when they encounter the beer cans,
the one competition,
and then banging their heads bloody.

Sometimes at night,
the kiosks play crazy,
and the peppermints bounce
along on to the street,
right to the feet of the one hundreds,
the zigarettes measuring up the high jump.

Sometimes at night,
is some heavy goings on,
and the next morning early,
the city garbage disposal guys,
take their big brooms and gather,
all this trash that is left from the matter.