The New York style trumpets galore
inside this tiny, slimy world.
"Eagle hearts for ten or more!"
When he shakes his leather fist...

It cannot begin to take you back;
the style doesn't handle that
without a meal of chicken fat,
a pile of aging grist.

The style box talks and it knows all
of screams and ashes in the fall.
Must we run before we crawl
through this fine and rose-red mist?

Stylin' men and stylish girls,
with blonde and purchased stylish curls,
kick and reach for wanton pearls;
deny the fatal twist:

That each and all who know style best,
must go west, west, west,
and so begins the style ******
in a hazy, ****** mist.