Around the loop the elevated crawls, And giant shadows sink against the walls Where ten to twenty stories strive to hold The pale refraction of the sunset's gold. Slop underfoot, we pass beneath the loop. The crowd is uglier, poorer; there are smells As from the depths of unsuspected hells, And from a groggery where beer and soup Are sold for five cents to the thieves and bums. Here now are huge cartoons in red and blue Of obese women and of skeleton men, Egyptian dancers, twined with monstrous snakes, Before the door a turbaned lithe Hindoo, A bagpipe shrilling, underneath a den Of opium, whence a man with hand that shakes, Rolling a cigarette, so palely comes. The clang of car bells and the beat of drums. Draft horses clamping with their steel-shod hoofs. The buildings have grown small and black and worn; The sky is more beholden; o'er the roofs A flock of pigeons soars; with dresses torn And yellow faces, labor women pass Some Chinese gabbling; and there, buying fruit, Stands a fair girl who is a late recruit To those poor women slain each year by lust. 'Tis evening now and trade will soon begin. The family entrance beckons for a glass Of hopeful mockery, the piano's din Into the street with sounds of rasping wires Filters, and near a pawner's window shows Pistols, accordions; and, luring buyers, A Jew stands mumbling to the passer-by Of jewelry and watches and old clothes. A limousine gleams quickly--with a cry A legless man fastened upon a board With casters 'neath it by a sudden shove Darts out of danger. And upon the corner A lassie tells a man that God is love, Holding a tambourine with its copper hoard To be augmented by the drunken scorner. A woman with no eyeballs in her sockets Plays "Rock of Ages" on a wheezy organ. A newsboy with cold hands thrust in his pockets Cries, "All about the will of Pierpont Morgan!" The roofline of the street now sinks and dwindles. The windows are begrimed with dust and beer. A child half clothed, with legs as thin as spindles, Carries a basket with some bits of coal. Between lace curtains eyes of yellow leer, The cheeks splotched with white places like the skin Inside an eggshell--destitute of soul. One sees a brass lamp oozing kerosene Upon a stand whereon her elbows lean; Lighted, it soon will welcome negroes in.