Poem about Holliswood
For the weary traveler who exits the Parkway
At 188th Street and then loses his way,
Where does he go to find plain numbered streets?
For directions, he'll get help from everyone he meets.
"It's easy," they'll say, "the place to go
Is over to Salerno, Palermo, then Nero to Soho.
Go left on Palo Alto, it winds like the letter "S",
It crosses over itself, the street with the avenue, what a mess.
Bear to the right past two traffic lights.
But watch out for Foothill; there are two or three -
Dunton is more where you'll want to be.
Follow the path around but stop short
If you leave Epsom, you land on Romeo Court."
"What place is this," wonders our stranger far from home,
"With names taken from Italy, Spain, and ancient Rome?
Oh, and one McLaughlin - who's he, the leader of the band?"
He names the through street for having surveyed all this land.
The winding hills were all once glacier-cut
No one'd dare say, "It's a nice place to visit, but ..."
Who'd believe New York City could be like this -
Tucked away, this little pocket of suburban bliss?
A place where flowers blossom and tall trees grow.
It is a very small, little world, but did you know
That people come from the whole world wide
To settle here, south of Grand Central, north of Hillside.
If you haven't guessed, I'll tell you the place to be:
Here's a hint, the zip code's 11423.
For those who live here, and for those who wish they could:
Behold! This is the land of Holliswood.