Before the city's streets awake, 
I lace my boots with care; 
And head where ancient bells proclaim 
Their music on the air.

Six hundred years of bronze and rope 
Still shake the morning sky; 
The Liberties receive the sound 
That young hands amplify.

The tower sways beneath the pull, 
The bells respond and sing; 
A language wrought of weight and will, 
Of rhythm, rope, and ring.

When ringing's done, I wander north
To where my friends are found; 
Where leather, denim, polished boots 
And smiles are moving round.

My purple laces flash beneath
The cuff of well-worn black;
Not quite a formal invitation,
But hardly holding back.

The leather shirt has had its day, 
Its buttons would object; 
Too many hours beneath the bar 
Have earned the chest's effect.

So polo, hoodie, leather coat 
Must serve me for the day; 
Though part of me still wonders who 
Might look my way and stay.

And if a Daddy catches sight 
Of violet lace and grin, 
I hope I seem composed enough 
To hide the din within.

For bells are not the only things
That set the air astir;
A Daddy's glance across a room
Can make the whole world blur.

The tower calls with bronze and rope,
The market calls with eyes;
And both can leave a beating heart
Resounding long besides.

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