The city weighed heavy With its drunken need Corners allow the space to find Pimps hang in the corners of grubby bars running old Yanky cars Living in cold basement flats The Borough of Bourbon Brass and old Brasses’ The deep wooden liquid Pull them along and along The brass flickers In-between the cigarette smoke Neon and mirror The jazz bars blow their brassy Services To passing strangers They sit in their anticipation Of the needy next one Bills don’t pay themselves The morning sees an oik Disinfecting doorways for a dime.