Sing To Me Hollywood Poem by Tommy Szamosi

The hills are alive with the sound of thunder,
tourists watching hookers just doing their number,
a sound that's heard not there, oh not down below,
what keeps them up all night – hey, is it just the dough?

Tell your fat lies to young runaways in bars,
drink three ay-em coffee and pluck your steel guitars,
sing to me Hollywood, sing your worn-out tune,
and I'll wash with my salty tears that dirty old spoon.

Dreams on every corner like broken windows stare,
would-be starlets high on pot, sweet fumes everywhere,
shiny limos crowd the street – the pounding beat goes on,
Popparazzi scream and shout: 'Look, there's Celine Dion! '

And hey! there's Jack and wow! there's Clint, and Madonna too,
on the sidewalk drenched in beer - their stars don't shine so new,
sing to me Harlot Hollywood, sing your worn-out, wretched tune,
and I'll wash with my salty, bitter tears that dirty, dirty old spoon.