Classic Poem

Watchful, grave, he sits astride his horse,
Draped with his rubber poncho, in the rain;
He speaks the pungent lingo of “The Force,”
And those who try to bluff him, try in vain.

Inured to every mood of fool and crank,
Shrewdly and sternly all the crowd he cons:
The rain drips down his horse's shining flank,
A figure nobly fit for sculptor's bronze.

O knight commander of our city stress,
Little you know how picturesque you are!
We hear you cry to drivers who transgress:
“Say, that's a helva place to park your car!”