1942, the middle of World War II, a reign not so delight,
A silent barren street wraps around the diner tonight,
Just three figures remain and a few hours until twilight,
Even with empty mugs these nighthawks won’t take flight.
Phillie’s, the tank full of glow that seeps and pours,
To cast a reverse shadow all over the opposite floor,
And while everyone else in the city sleeps and snores,
Nocturnal nighthawks stay alert without pressure to soar.
Sales down as the bartender hasn’t a busy shift to attend,
But someday he knows times will have to mend,
But in the meantime everyone’s got plenty of time to spend,
Because it feels this night will never end.