Past the deep Gotham of my eyes --
     The authority of my headache reads
     The graffiti of the prophets -- scribbled
     On the back walls of the train-station:
          
           Commute, work, commute, eat,
           Commute, work, commute, sleep;
           Work  Buy  Die
           And Say AYE-AYE, Sir.

     How many Dear Mr. Heartbreak letters
     Have been etched here -- (I cannot say how many) --
     Deep in the Gotham of my eyes --
     Cold as a city empty of alleys --

     Maybe I'll please the philistines,
     With much talk of good money. I'll study
     Their scriptures about the nonsense of art.
     At last I'll make good --

     I'll finally make them happy.
     I'll try a new part in my hair.
     Maybe I'll put down this pen; stop these letters.
     From now on, I'll express myself in tears.