These painters are, indeed, Hoboken's lords.

In fair Hoboken, where we lay our scene,

From ancient grime to colors fresh and keen,

Where painters, with their brushes poised and stout,

Do in brisk strokes put weary doubt to rout.

O, hark! The walls that once did bear the brunt

Of time's harsh kiss, now youthful hues confront.

A coat of alabaster, trim in slate,

Adorns each domicile, from small to great.

Each shingle whispers tales of tint and shade,

As rollers dance in lively masquerade.

The cornices and moldings, once so plain,

 Now boast of burgundy's rich, royal reign.

"Behold," cries he who wields the palette bright,

"A transformation from the murk to light!"

Where sable shadows gloomed, now glimmers joy,

No darkened corner left they might employ.

The sashes, shutters, doors, in chorus sing,

A symphony of colors on the wing.

A touch of azure here, a blush of cream,

Upon the edifice, like painter's dream.

For every house becomes a canvas grand,

Where artists labor with a steady hand.

They dip and daub, they stroke with care and art,

Till every home's a masterpiece to chart.

So Hoboken, with each painted space,

 Doth put on a more cheerful, comely face.

And passersby, with gaze of sweet surprise,

Doth laud the vision 'fore their very eyes.

Thus, painters ply their trade with pride and zest,

 In every hue, their skill is manifest.

 The town alight with colors bold and bright,

From dawn's first blush to the soft fall of night.

In this fair town, the homes do smile anew,

Adorned in coats of every brilliant hue.

And so with brushes as their faithful swords,

These painters are, indeed, Hoboken's lords.