Stench in my nose; the tar is black With scattered trash from pit to pit, And the gays ride on gilded backs From the shadowed blocks where they buy fake tits. Women, with eyes covered hiding stitches, Old men tired of easy riches, Pimps, wearied from slapping their bitches. Sleep. Wake, for the tattered scarf of gray That flutters its folds from each altered state Shall spread, and become another day, And nothing can cause it to stop or wait. Wake, in your penthouse or flat in the slums, If you’ve feasted on flesh or feasted on crumbs, Whether you’re stars or bankers or bums, Wake ! Work! I’m a tourist with little pity For the back that is weak and the shoulder that sags, And you who would live in this god-awful city Must pay for your velvet or sweat for your rags. Actors with glamour and scandal for sale, Bleary-eyed Runaways fresh off the trail, Working girls and crack hounds and gangsters on bail, Work !