Watertown, you are most aptly named;
a wretched burg where all it does is rain.
A singer poet visited one day
and took away a song of Passion's play.
He sang about a Watchman time passed by,
and of the sweet young thing who caught his eye.
He told us of the Watchman's sly seduction;
where lovemaking served in lieu of Extreme Unction.
When she moved on, the Watchman was bereft,
distraught about the note that she had left.
In Watertown, small chance for Love, thought he-
when anywhere is a better place to be.