The archways, pillars, and columns, The pitched gothic roofs they upheld, The onion-domed turrets atop them, They all went straight down when it fell. Dust clouds of red terracotta Rose over the bricks in a swell. Just piles of rubble were left of The Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. The statues, fountains, and gardens, The courtyard where they were displayed, The gilded metalwork balconies, Which overlooked that lush promenade, The rounded glass ceiling above it, Wherefrom the sun’s light would cascade, All were sold off or demolished, For an office building to be made. You can’t sit in the “Gentleman’s Café,” Sleep in the "King Louis bed," Nor relax in the "King Henry Drawing Room," Or the "Parlor de Marie-Antoinette." Though they all died with the Waldorf, They’ve built a new place in its stead. Its height is quite great, it’s called "Empire State," I think we should go there instead.