The Cyclone

This is a first draft.  Any critique help is appreciated.  Coney Island is going to be torn down in September and I wanted to send a poem onto the owners of Ruby's Bar, the oldest bar on the boardwalk there...  Anywway this poem needs work.  HELP! 

 -Coney Island

 Undoubtedly, you contain multitudes
and the sand beneath you is moved
thousands of times a month.  The waves
have lowered there heads now. And
parachute drop lowers the sun one last time.

At Ruby's Bar, they're still getting it on.
Debbie has crawled from the lead colored
waves to drunkenly lift her shirt next
to the sign "Hot clams and warm beer".

In the end the speakers still come out at night,
rollerskaters spinning in fury to ancient disco.
Everything here spins, if only but for awhile.
the Wonder Wheel turns slowly in the background,
bumper cars doing 180's on the electric floor.

And when it's all dismantled, the Cyclone,
in its preserved lonliness wll slip the knots
of it's sad wooden platform a hundered times
a day to climb upward into a different world.

One with Vegas casinos and condos electrifying
in their whiteness and safty.  Oceanside views.
And then, as it always does, for it is a Brooklyn
coaster, it will plunge down without mercy

slamming everyone into its side as if to say,
Hey man, one thing is left.
and it will climb its hills and violently
roll into its turns like the wild thing

that it is.  The coaster Brooklynites saved
over and over again as the years crawled past.
The thing that moves in circles just like most rides,
only ones that tend to change you completely.