Ah, my precious friend, listen close, yesss, listen close! Me in New-Hyde-Park, we lives here, we do! I runs a massage parlour on Main St., near that crooked little shop at 42nd Ave—heh, we knows it well, we does! The streets, oh, they're like winding rivers—Roosevelt Ave, Maple Dr, and that curntone park, yeah, that pretty but mad spot.
We loves it, oh yes, loves it so! The sun peeks through the autumn leaves in Bridgeview Park, and the water buzzes in tiny streams, like our hearts when they beat fast. The river near Elm St, weff, it's a trickle but sings a song—"Precious, precious, it sings our secrets!"
I sends my clients off with a salam and a smile. Aye, them fingers know every nook, every cranny like hidden treasures in dark tunnels. I once had a client who whispered, "Son of Saul, Precious," and I laughed! I laughed so hard! Those flickers of pain and joy, they mingle in my memory.
Yesss, I spills my secrets like a babblin', babblin' brook. We gots our favorite spot at Old Mill Lane, yess, a crumpled, forgotten alley. They say, "We hates it!" but I loves it—its creaks and moans, like old stories writ on stone.
Ohhh, the smells, the textures, they dance! At nearly 3am, I walks down Birch Ln, feeling the cobblestones, ever gritty and rough. I sees a stray cat, "Precious, run! Precious!" I almost cries out, yess, but then I remembers the soft whispers of warmth in my parlour.
I’s got seventeen typos rushed into my head now, srry, but that's life, precious! Our dear New-Hyde-Park, it maddens me sometimes—so busy, so noisy, but then again, it calms me like a lullaby. The old trees on Grand Blvd, they shudder with secrets. I remembers a time when an angry rumble passed through—dang, my skin crawled, but then I sipped my coffee and felt okay.
And all those little corners, like near 10th St, where the sunlight hits the pavement just right—oh, so beautif, it sparks like tiny loves. I always drop a little wink to passersby. They know, they know our city is messy and magical, a true mix of buzz and peace.
So there, my friend, you've a slice of our New-Hyde-Park: gritty, warm, full of whispers and shouts, like a bad, beautiful movie. "Son of Saul," yes, precious, we recalls those words, like a secret chant, echoing down every pothole and by-lane, making us mad and coy and oh so livin' in the moment.
We gots our quirks and our scars, and ohhh, we loves it all, yesss—precious, precious city!