Inspired By a Bumper Sticker and Another Refugee

So it seems that every second
slut that runs away
these days
male or female
or whore on a stage
who happens to be
packing for the City
sings of Astoria
like it'll save
their sorry souls.
What's there
so great to soothe them
but the warm-eyed
Greeks of Queens?
So close, in terms of time
to those curried Jackson Heights
where the dot-heads run around
adding arms and tusks to God
while us cowboys strip more
of His power every day.

I think it's more the sound
as it rolls off fattened tongues--
the syllables of promise
like parents in the pews
lying to young ears
meek enough to fear
an eternity sans water
like a week with no TV.

It's there in the road
in front of you, children.
It's every time that you obey
the daily curse of your alarm.
Astoria will get on
without your dreams
to crowd it.
You don't pronounce the 'gyro'
like the locals anyway.
And I, for one, am not
for rollicking fake times.

Yes, I have a truck.
No, won't help you move.