beastie boys – an open letter to nyc

This is a World Trade bound E train, next stop, next stop, This is a World Trade bound E train, next stop, next stop, I’ll curl my fists into balls, in my warm grey pockets, as I turn to face the impossible gusts, of wind, that race past her hallways and closets, I keep stepping forward into the belly of the island that never rests, the hulking metal box, bent busted tracks, our love was made from the wish of an eye lash, hung on the wall for all, to see with thumb tacks.

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