Her hearts wicked industry whirs away:
The machinery of her cruel commerce.
Her debts, she always promises to pay,
And she pays with yet another promise.
Dark with toil are her factories of despair,
Which wheel to manufacture discontent.
Her city of sorrows– those brooding buildings there,
Are dollars of melancholy encased in cement.
Deep her rue,
In a river of despond,
Which wanders through
Her city and beyond.
That span of doubt,
Which keeps her in.
And all others out.
Freeways of indecision her boundaries cross–
The transit commodities of truck.
She barters the markets of human loss.
In dollars of melancholy, her bargains struck.