Lament for a dead town

I remember how the smokestacks roiled
A riot of noise that thumped and boiled
The sulfur smell of pulping wood
The stink of Hell yet somehow good
I thought it would be there for me
Like others on my Family Tree
My gateway to the Middle Class
Now broken steel and shattered glass
The Mill is gone, and others, too
Around which my home city grew
And the history of five generations
Becomes a wailing lamentation
For a city borne of Industry
That cannot live down on its knees
Once-proud neighborhoods in repose
Are slowly decaying into ghettos
In yards where once small gardens stood
Now grow trash and splintered wood
As its workers dissipate like dust
This town of Iron will turn to Rust