Joseph Brodsky — Blues

Eighteen years I’ve spent in Manhattan.

The landlord was good, but he turned bad.

A scumbag, actually. Man, I hate him.

Money is green, but it flows like blood.

I guess I’ve got to move across the river.

New Jersey beckons with its sulphur glow.

Say, numbered years are a lesser evil.

Money is green, but it doesn’t grow.

I’ll take away my furniture, my old sofa.

But what should I do with my windows’ view?

I feel like I’ve been married to it, or something.

Money is green, but it makes you blue.

A body on the whole knows where it’s going.

I guess it’s one’s soul which makes one pray,

even though above it’s just a Boeing.

Money is green, and I am grey.