The Warden

The Hill is eerily quiet
No hustle, no bustle
No beggars, no thieves
Junkies have retrieved
sleeping with the fleas
Too early for the vets
No one knows where
They were left at
The shift is over
For the 24-hour cop
Who was chasing
The latest hit 'n' run bastard 
All the way to the parking lot
Where, by the secret garden
In between the two pines
And the knee-high bushes 
She stands
glancing at the disappearing
Stars and the coming
Of the morning Sun 
It's one hundred degrees
And you know it's no fun
The dark clothed Warden
Hoping to take away the pain
commences the wicked dance
For the much needed rain