Queen

She pins a shamrock on us, if literature's our freedom, we'd fill a Terminus, like a mistress school bound, would puff out her cheeks, listened to lives ill found, on Atlantic Avenue, where the wind freezes, she made us feel useful, Brooklyn’s steamy trams, her retirement at St Stephen's, jellies, country bands, she died counting the Angelus, listening to Blues singers, joy her last impetus, we stand on cold ground, Fulton swells our cheeks, ah Jesus, our dollars homeward bound, the bridge a moving season.