The New Yorker Tale

I fled it down drab nights and endless days;
I fled it down the archness of the ads;
I fled it down the labyrinthine ways
Of urban mind, and in the midst of fads
I shrank from it, and under running patter
Of little feet I sped
From childhood recollections,
Adown Drambuie glooms of glamoured haze,
From the patched eye that headed chatter,
But with unhurrying pace
Between froufrou and lace
Deliberate sneer, majestic trivialness
It beat — and did repeat,
Mid pictured cognac neat,
All things are futile, why read me?