the Greeks got it made.
They fled from their ruins,
and chose you for their graves.
Your cost is so high;
the struggle is the same.
Oh, Astoria, free your slaves.


It will always be
the Triboro.
The skyline promises
a better tomorrow.

The Hellgate dirty river
in their young veins:
kids are getting high,
and everything seems the same.

The church bells strike
on Ditmars Boulevard;
widows still dressed in black,
cross their lonely hearts.

Their aging sons
watch young girls walk by.
History is sold
for another coffee shop.

the Greeks are betrayed.
They saved you from ruin,
but you’ve changed your face:
the hookah pipes,
the hipster babes.
Oh, Astoria, free your slaves.