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How can we say that we know life,
When this drink in which we partake
Is poisonous so,
Turning all roses to weeds,
Our rosaries to garrotes,
These vines to hands, made to seek
While we poor widows weep.
Why should we beat against this turgid shore
with dry rafts of driftwood and weeds,
When all we know is dangerous
And all we'd know is the cold,
Cold summer, under these rapid skies,
Under these vapid cries
And those heaving sighs-

Under this dead Manhattan sky,
I walk three steps from the car, under this summer sky,
Under this summer's starry skies,
Lit up in crimson, tyrian and gold,
As we light up with white BIC lighters,
As the hum of the neon-red vacancy sign
Drowns out the din of our cries.

In this valley of dry voices,
This valley of dry voices and of a clear rain.