| In the ironbound section near Avenue L
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| Where the Portuguese women come to see what you sell
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| The clouds so low, the morning so slow
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| As the wires cut through the sky
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| The beams and bridges cut the light on the ground
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| Into little triangles and the rails run 'round
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| Through the rust and the heat
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| The light and sweet coffee color of her skin
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| Bound up in wire and fate
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| Watching her walk him up to the gate
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| In front of the ironbound school yard
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| Kids will grow like weeds on a fence
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| She says they look for the light they try to make sense
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| They come up through the cracks like grass on the tracks
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| She touches him goodbye
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| Steps off the curb and into the street
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| The blood and feathers near her feet
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| Into the ironbound market
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| In the ironbound section near Avenue L
|
| Where the Portuguese women come to see what you sell
|
| The clouds so low, the morning so slow
|
| As the wires cut through the sky
|
| She stops at the stall fingers the ring
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| Opens her purse feels a longing
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| Away from the ironbound border
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| Fancy poultry parts sold here
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| Breasts and thighs and hearts
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| Backs are cheap and wings are nearly
|
| Fancy poultry parts sold here
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| Breasts and thighs and hearts
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| Backs are cheap and wings are nearly free
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| Nearly free, nearly free, nearly free |