Day’s End
Little girls,
You are gay,
Little factory girls,
At the end of your day.
There you stand,
Huddled close,
On the back of a tram,
Having taken your dose.
And you go
Through the gray
And the gold of the streets
At the close of the day,
Blind as moles.
You are crude,
You are sweet, little girls,
And amazingly rude,
But so fine
To be gay.
Gentle people are dull
At the end of the day.
