Gotham sits quiet,
as the bridge-and-tunnel clan trudges home,
while Batman reads his poetry
on a channel all his own,
and no one’s watching,
no one’s watching,
as the streets receive their shine,
as the trash along the Cumberland
will tarry with the crime.
the searchlight wavers to-and-fro,
the hero will not come,
our hope has wane,
the scum below
has risen from the slum.
the hour is dark, the people cry,
and Batman has retired,
put on a pound and read the poems
his lonely heart desired,
so Gotham sinks
beyond repair,
beyond where dream meets doubt,
and the world so made of reason
has shut all lovers out.