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.