Steel gates creak br As cold winds speak br And sweep through the turnstiles br Past the sign, “For Sale” br Next to the carousel br Where the worn horses lie in piles br But paints crust br And gears rust, br Bringing the price down. br The blue Northern swipes br Through the calliope pipes, br Making a humming sound. br But it is out of breath br And out of tune; br Still the merry-go-round br Begins to turn, br While its steeds still yearn br With hooves pawing the ground br To gallop away br To fields, Hooray! br Neighing the only sound.