Nothing Left but Dust

Put me somewhere west of East Street, where there’s nothing left but dust, And the boys are all abustling and everything’s gone bust; And where the buildings that are standing sort of blink and blindly stare At the damnedest finest ruins ever gazed on anywhere. So went the verses by Larry Harris, written soon after a double disaster that all but destroyed one of the West’s social and commercial hubs and, indeed, one of the world’s greatest cities. His lines proved that, regardless of