Streets of Red

Lined up in the near skies, is a street of red and blue,
Scarlet and blue clouds hanging on steel balconies,
Dripping not so clear water to the mud below,
Clouds of wet fabric, on a Sunday morn,
Colour the near skies, dulls the sea of mud below.
Voices of the kids fill the world below,
A ball there, a hulla hoop there,
On occasions a stray cat steals the flying ball,
And only adds fun to the kids.
Just down the street lies a man,
In a muddy ditch, a replica of his face and hair,
Seems he had one too many,
His speech as blurred as his memories.
On the other side of the street down below,
A stall, with the sound made from frying French fries,
Don't mind that French is an unknown thing here,
But the fries do a good representation,
And to my awe, they don't spread germs,
Mind you, no chemist spoils the face of the red and blue street