Reclinerland Follow

i don't care about the brooklyn bridge. it's just a hunk of steel and tar. and i wouldn't care about that empire state building, even if it scraped the skies of mars. can't even see our names written in the stars; those old twin towers block [that old flatiron blocks (*in the new version*)] my view. for some it's the rainbow room and some it's the park, but, baby, my new york is you.

i don't care about the guggenheim. and MoMA? i don't give a frick. and greenwich village with its singles scene, night after night the same old schtick.

i'd rather take the "A" train north up to the heights or zoom down to pier 42. and as our lips meet, lady liberty drifts by. my torch burns bright for nobody but you, dear.

baby, you're hanging in my gallery. i'll take you with onions and kraut. or even strolling down the bowery. ordering in or stepping out. they can press their noses to the windows on 5th avenue, but, baby, my new york is you.

tell my momma i'm in heaven and i'm not passing through. 'cause, baby, my new york is you.

my new york is you.