In a corner

Of the Quarter,

There’s a place I know

Where bats don’t flutter,

Where the Moon won’t glow.

And a wrought iron door,

With its ornate design,

Swings open

Yet hoping

To coax you inside.

From that harsh little room

Seeps a dim red light,

Where the shadow of something

Drifts in and out of sight.

Music rolling softly,

Mingling with whimpers,

The whispers of misery,

The red light flickers.

And the wise among us know

It’s time to cross the walk,

When you reach the corner

And that red light flickers on

In a certain little room,

In the shadow of the Quarter.