Stories Of The Street

The stories of the street are mine

The Spanish voices laugh

The Cadillacs go creeping down

Through the night and the poison gas

I lean from my window sill

in this old hotel I chose.

Yes, one hand on my suicide

And one hand on the rose.



I know you've heard it's over now

And war must surely come,

The cities they are broke in half

And the middle men are gone.

But let me ask you one more time

O children of the dust,

These hunters who are shrieking now

Do they speak for us?



And where do all these highways go

Now that we are free?

Why are the armies marching still

That were coming home to me?

O lady with your legs so fine

O stranger at your wheel

You are locked into your suffering

And your pleasures are the seal.



The age of lust is giving birth

But both the parents ask the nurse

To tell them fairy tales on both sides of the glass

Now the infant with his cord

Is hauled in like a kite

And one eye filled with blueprints

One eye filled with night.



O come with me my little one

And we will find that farm

And grow us grass and apples there

To keep all the animals warm

And if by chance I wake at night

And I ask you who I am

O take me to the slaughter house

I will wait there with the lamb.



With one hand on a hexagram

And one hand on a girl

I balance on a wishing well

That all men call the world

We are so small between the stars

So large against the sky

And lost among the subway crowds

I try to catch your eye.