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New York, New York

We are the clumsy passersby, we push past each other with elbows,<br> with feet, with trousers, with suitcases,<br> we get off the train, the jet plane, the ship, we step down<br> in our wrinkled suits and sinister hats.<br> We are all guilty, we are all sinners,<br> we come from dead-end hotels or industrial peace,<br> this might be our last clean shirt,<br> we have misplaced our tie,<br> yet even so, on the edge of panic, pompous,<br> sons of bitches who move in the highest circles<br> or quiet types who don't owe anything to anybody,<br> we are one and the same, the same in time's eyes,<br> or in solitude's: we are the poor devils<br> who earn a living and a death working<br> bureautragic