Main Street by Joyce Kilmer for SML, Redfrore, Liberbox, Dot, Org by Richard Goadec. I like to look at the blasamy track of the moon upon the sea, but it isn't half so fine a sight as Main Street used to be. When it was all covered over with a couple of feet of snow and over the crisp and radiant road the ringing slays would go. Now Main Street boarded with autumn leaves it was a pleasant thing, and it's got us with gay with dandelions early in the spring.
I like to think of it white with frost or dusty in the heat, because I think it is humerner than any other street. A city street that is busy and wide is ground by a thousand wheels, and the burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels. It is dully conscious of weight and speed and of work that never ends, but it cannot be human like Main Street and recognize its friends. There are only about 100 teams on Main Street in a day and 20 or 30 people I guess, and some children out to play.
And there wasn't a wagon or buggy or a man or a girl or a boy that Main Street didn't remember and somehow seemed to enjoy. The truck and the motor and the trolley car and the elevated train, they make the weary city street, reverberate with pain, but there is yet an echo left deep down within my heart of the music the main street cobblestones made beneath a butch's cot. God be thanked for the milky way that runs across the sky. That's the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die.
Some folks call it a silver sword and some a pearly crown, but the only thing I think it is is Main Street, heaven town. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.