City of Strangers
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
Sounds all noble and enlightened, but its bullshit. Politicians been throw’n round words like “Melting Pot” and “Gateway to America”, which sound friendly and welcom’n, but it ain’t the truth. Rape, robbery, murder and half the time nobody even knows. How could ya with all them people. Census clerks down at City Hall says there’s now five-and-a-half-million liv’n in the five boroughs. Holy hell! Millions of friggin people--of which I knows only about thirty-or-so--and all day, every day, I’m surrounded by ‘m all. Wouldna be so bad if they was decent folk, but they ain’t. Poor wretched refuse. Yup, just like it says, that’s what we really got. A load of refuse clogg’n up our city streets and stinking up our air. Deadbeats that don’t wanna work, so theys either laze about begg’n for handouts or they preys upon the few decent folks that does got a couple cents to scratch together. Yeah, so welcome ye all to our city of strangers.
New York City, 1920. A city of promise. A city of new beginnings. A city with secrets hidden in the darkness.