by Patti Smith. This dead city longs to be. This dead city longs to be free. Seven screaming horses. Melt down in the sun. Building scenes on empty dreams. And smoking them one by one. This dead city longs to be. This dead city longs to be living. Is it any wonder there's squalor in the sun. With their broken schemes and their lotteries. They never get nowhere. Is it any wonder they're spitting at the sun. God's parasites in abandoned sites. and they never have much fun. If I was a blind man. Would you see for me. Or would you confuse. The nature of my blues. And refuse a hand to me. Is it any wonder crying in the sun. Is it any wonder I'm crying in the sun. Well I built my dreams on your empty scenes. Now I'm burning them one by one. This damn city this dead city. Immortal city. Motor city. Suc-cess city. Longs to be. Longs to be. Free. Free.