You make your own happiness as surely as you decide where you want to live. You wear your neighborhood like a cloak. It could be a hair shirt or it could be a velvet cape. You can be Batman in Dorchester or you can be a midnight can collector pushing a rattling shopping cart. Both are on midnight patrol.
Dorchester...Dorchester...Dorchester...Dorchester...Dot. The Red Line rumbles a lulling rhythm along its tracks through Sydney Street back yards. Dishes rattle, bicycle bells vibrate, pressed pants slip off of hangers, neckties are loosened and tossed cavalierly over a chair. Dorchester is a stiff drink that goes down too smooth for argument...ask the patrons at the Harp and Bard. Whiskey and bubble tea are Dorchester's drinks of choice depending on the season and time of day.
Dash-dash-dash-dot! A melody descends to it's high point. All is well and good in Dorchester. Look around and you won't see an unhappy face. People take pratfalls but they dust themselves off and stride off, starry-eyed to a job interview. Dorchesterites can't lie low, they are too proud and straight-backed, too used to conquering the world or, at least, Boston, to sleep a day away. Flash me a V for victory and I will draw you a swollen-bellied D for Dorchester. The proof is in the calligraphy.