Bored In Manhattan

No more, no more, Manhattan I now say. At seven a.m., the factory bell beats. The coffin-buildings bury the gray day. The elevator screams and flies despite its weight, which forces me to dread contemporary speed. No more, no more, Manhattan I now say. The iron's heavy as a rock and equally as gray. In the embroidery,the gold thread rips and weeps. The coffin-buildings bury the gray day. At seventeen, young girls look twice their age from laboring the fourteen hour days. No more, no more, Manhattan I now say. Conditions of no hygiene drive us to our death. Specifically, the blood that we must pay. The coffin-buildings bury the gray day. No more, no more, Manhattan I now say. The coffin-buildings bury the gray day.