Writhing Mediæval lanes
Wind their whimsical way
Betwixt overwrought façades,
Unwary of the laws of logic,
Reason, and convenience.

They care not for compass points,
Nor our unfailing urge
To hurry t’ward our destinations,
As if nought existed here-to-there;
And the world was built on worry.

Their very make-up seems to fight against
The tyranny of purpose;
Wet, uneven cobblestone
Is difficult to walk on,
Much less run.

This is what happens,
One will say, without
A city planner.
And I’ll reply, Beg pardon, sir,
But stuff your facts and figures.

Are children built,
In only one
Turning of the Sun?
Or according to our plans?
Are Loves? Lives? Faith?

How dare you wish that Rome was!
Pompous coward!
Too enamored of yourself
And your designs to love
The delicate fancies of Time.