Upon Swanston Street where tram bells chime,
In Melbourne’s heart and city’s prime,
A young chap stands in shirt and cap,
Beside his cart, a silver map.
His hands are quick, his manner keen,
He serves up swirls of cold and cream—
In cones like spires, in bowls like bells,
A moment’s joy his labour tells.
The footpath hums with boots and haste,
Yet here, they pause for sugared taste.
Beneath the clock, beneath the sky,
The city breathes, and time slips by.
A lady laughs, a child grins wide,
The chap with pride stands just beside.
No colours blaze—just black and white,
Yet in this frame, the world feels right.
The tram glides past with iron sigh,
A gull wheels low, then climbs the sky.
And still he stands, his trade the same—
A fleeting joy, a quiet flame.
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