Eight Million, eight million people, my dear
Came to this Erie side city; to behold the wonders
Of the American hemisphere and see grand Niagara.
One of them shot the president. 

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His blood stains the illuminated cobble below the Temple of Music, 
Lighting the flow into the fountains, before seeping into the electricity. 
My dear, for a moment, this small city holds 
This young nation in its palm. 

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This Electric City, springs forth the new age of our republic. 
The old canal, which her and Lockport hold, will flow 
The economy of the upcoming world; the advancements of our time
Will be dictated by the Queen City of the Lakes. 

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The leviathans of this world will envy this city. 
Its spirit and grandeur will rival even that 
Of old Rome, for a time. illuminated are these 
Streets by the sainted Father Baker. 

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But My Dear, the president has died. Now I am to walk in 
The footsteps of Giants, which will dent the city streets in time,
And take office in the Wilcox’s house. 
Buffalo, My dear, is in its golden age. 
 
-Your own lover.