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and horrors of Third Avenue Iron dreams
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and stumbled to unemployment offices,
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who created great suicidal dramas
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on the apartment cliff banks of the Hudson
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under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon
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and their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
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who wept at the romance of the streets
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with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
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who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge,
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and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,
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who scribbled all night
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rocking and rolling over lofty incantations