To the women in the underpasses
only a bleeping toy made in Taiwan
sings the song of the sun which sails
high above, where they so seldom are.

They sit in the neon light and hope
that just one time the selling will be worth it,
that today somehow there'll be those throngs of women
buying the panties their men will so desire.

In boxes like aquariums
they sit and knit and nod and read and dream,
waiting for rare dispatches from above.

Maybe the end of days is nearly here
when they will hold a slaughterfest down there,
and bring us roasted on a spit the golden calf.

Translation Luke Davies