This town is more beautiful under a tree.
Sitting at the feet of an oak,
Birds higher; they spoke
Of the land, the sand, the views over seas
This town is quiet; automobiles are angry.
Stories of private life publicly seen
Through windows of closed rooms.
The wind could never be silent.
So it always tells the pavement and oaks.
We all need to vent.
A quiet, beautiful town, ugliness is in her heart.
Sircharlesthepoet 
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