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.
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