William Street

The red globe of light, the liquor green,

the pulsing arrows and the running fire

spilt on the stones, go deeper than a stream;

You find this ugly, I find it lovely

Ghosts' trousers, like the dangle of hung men,

in  pawn-shop windows, bumping knee by knee,

but none inside to suffer or condemn;

You find this ugly, I find it lovely.

Smells rich and rasping, smoke and fat and fish

and puffs of paraffin that crimp the nose,

of grease that blesses onions with a hiss;

You find it ugly, I find it lovely.

The dips and molls, with flip and shiny gaze

(death at their elbows, hunger at their heels)

Ranging the pavements of their pasturage;

You Find this ugly, I find it lovely .