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18 ноября 2013
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Раз уж пошла поэзия.
Eighteen years I've spent in Manhattan. The landlord was good, but he turned bad. A scumbag, actually. Man, I hate him. Money is green, but it flows like blood. I guess I've got to move across the river. New Jersey beckons with its sulphur glow. Say, numbered years are a lesser evil. Money is green, but it doesn't grow. I'll take away my furniture, my old sofa. But what should I do with my windows' view? I feel like I've been married to it, or something. Money is green, but it makes you blue. A body on the whole knows where it's going. I guess it's one's soul which makes one pray, even though above it's just a Boeing. Money is green, and I am grey |
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