Who will make the city joyful
Who will wipe away its tears?
Who will fill the streets with gladness
Who will calm the old folks’ fears?
Who will tell the children stories
Who will make their eyes gleam?
Who will keep the men from killing
Who will give the women dreams?

Maybe twenty thousand minstrels
Twenty thousand poets’ words
Maybe fifty thousand dancers
Maybe clowns and talking birds
Flowers on all the city’s corners
Trees on all the city streets
Maybe fragrances from the sewers
Sing-alongs in subway seats.

Maybe buses painted purple
Maybe no more numbered days
Bells that ring in all the buildings
Merchants learning how to play
Maybe parks for picnic lunches
Waterfalls and bubbling streams
Maybe flowers on cold computers—
Crowning IBM machines.

Maybe plumbers playing trumpets
Salesmen strumming their guitars
Lawyers nursing tender flowers
Businessmen exploring stars
Maybe potters, weavers, artists
Craftsmen, architects who dare,
Maybe muralists and sculptors
Maybe anyone who cares.

Maybe honest politicians
Radicals with angry screams
Maybe socialists and Marxists
Maybe silent men who dream
Maybe shoppers loving beggars
Gently smiling flower maids
Those who listen to the children
Those who still enjoy parades.

Who will sit among the flowers
See the sun and sky above?
Who will make the city joyful
Who will make us laugh and love?
Maybe mothers loving babies
Maybe gentle eyes that see.
Or beyond the other maybes
Maybe you and maybe me.

COPYRIGHT 1972 BY JAMES KAVANAUGH