Patchin Place

In Patchin Place, in Patchin Place,

There's a lamp-post tall and thin,

And the Jefferson Market clock's round face

Is always peering in

Over the chimneys clustered thick

And the spindly trees that grow

By the worn old stones and weathered brick

Of the houses in a row.

In Patchin Place the rooms are small,

The stairs are long and steep,

The nearby buildings tower tall,

But it's there that I would sleep—

With the old street lamp for company

With the clock's round shiny face

Watching the whole night long to see

All's well in Patchin Place.