If you happen to come to the Great City,
stop a little to admire
towering buildings & rumbling rivers of autos,
mansions of rich & sickening slums of poor,
nights dispelled by neon lightnings & other exciting things.

If you happen to come to the Great City,
you’ll see millions of men
march frenetically towards welfare & money.
They won’t look at you
not even for a moment,
they won’t ask you your name
but like migratory herds of buffalos
they’ll continue their blind march.
Don’t look for help
from the Great City.

If you happen to come to the Great City,
you must embrace the new religion,
the welfare’s religion,
you must take into your mind
only making money ideas,
you must regard love as sex
to make in airconditioned room,
you must despise poverty,
you must consider equality
a communist utopia,
you must know the decalogue
of the real babbitt.
Don’t look for sympathy
from the Great City.

If sudden illness strikes you
In the Great City,
if killing hands wound you
in the Great City,
don’t look for pity
from the Great City.
No samaritan will stoop to pick you up,
for them your body is ashcan
upset on the road.
The welfare’s man is harder than the City’s asphalt.
He’s not softened by the pity’s ardor.