Symphony
Sing me no song of Chicago
For Chicago itself is a song.
It's a song that is noisy and tuneless
It's a song that is played all day long.
In its base are the pulsating wheels
Of trolleys and railroads and cars
While its rhythm is strummed on the chatter
That floats out of theatres and bars.
The dictaphones blurt out the chorus
And cash registers ringing up fees
And the rapid click-clack of the presses
And staccato of typewriter keys.
The song becomes softer at nightfall
A soft murmer heard in the park
And its last note is played on the whistle
Of the South Shore Electric at dark.
