URBAN MYTH.                               
  
 
Tobacco Mild,
Like fertile Plains of Wheat
The Poor Man Feeds,
Whilst drinking in my blood red wine,
When in Chalice of Silver,
And flower of Gilt,
Spread Eagled upon the Alter,
To make the Perfect sacrifice, 
The Poetry rhymes  and the midnight hour,
Dreaming all the time,
Of a Sally Army band,
And a Lady who got lost along the way,
Between the Urban Angels,
Of Condoms and Coffee,
Rises the Sun,
And New Life,