"They are selling the midnight papers..."
--Jack Spicer

Every street has alleys and within the alleys
There are criminals and policemen.
I said, "Tonight
The moon is like a dead gangster."
I heard him giggle like a hound. "The moon,"
He said, "is spooky. We should lie upon our backs
And howl."
And so we walked, uneasy, wondering
If there were justice anywhere
Within this midnight city,
Or how, without a hat, one could distinguish
A vice-squad member from a glass of beer,
Or whether if one met them walking hand in hand
Once could tell Bugsy Siegel from Virginia Woolf.
They are selling the midnight papers,
The moon is wearing brass knuckles.