Double post sorry, here's another bloody poem - sorry

Melbourne,
Grey clouds roll over your skyline
Like a quilted doona,
Made of rain and thunder.
The bluestone pavement
Smooth and slick,
Ready to send you to the ground
In your heels or smooth-tread soles
As you rush to a cafe,
Nestled in an alley,
Off Bourke or Lonsdale.
Rain, sun, or hail,
They'll be open to receive you
But only between 7 to 4.
Dinner and a show
At the Arts Precinct,
Docklands, Swanston.
The blinding sunsets down the streets
Running West to East.
The chilling icy winds,
Whipping off Antarctic sheets
And straight through black puffer jackets,
South to North, a howling racket
Burning cheeks red.
The summer thunderstorms, the summer heat,
A couple of days over forty
And we're all complaining,
Though we'll complain about the cold too;
It's who we are.
So many of us call this home,
And though I have visited the capitals of our neighbour-states,
(Brisbane is humid, Adelaide sucks,
Though Perth is great, you'll need a car),
I will always come back to my city,
Where I was born, worn, torn, and reborn.