Little Boxes

There we were entering the big city,
It was hot and humid, such pity,
The big condominium towers looming above,
Each with hundreds of little cubicles like a hive,
Reminds me of the 1962 “Little Boxes” song,
By Malvina Reynolds, yes – it has been that long,
Here too they all are living in little boxes, on the side,
Although you don’t see pink one and a green one, never mind,
And they are not made of ticky tacky everyone,
But of stone and blocks, they are not much fun,
They loom high you see them from afar,
There they stand cold stone towers that they are,
No distinction or personality, all is the same,
Not one can step forward with its claim to fame,
That’s the essence of the modern city, no personality,
Nothing unique, nothing special, the unfortunate reality,
I love little boxes, in different colors, different shapes,
That stands apart like oranges to grapes,
Sense of individuality, character and spunk,
Looking like they were put together by a drunk,
These will give you a sense of discovery,
By their mere presence their distinct individuality

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