If you ride the Brooklyn bound A train in Manhattan...
Blank stares on the A train I recognize this too completely Express stops to nowhere Where expressions can live freely And the train is packed so there's no room for healing what we're dealing with here. It's called new yorker syndrome. Out of towners are perplexed by The emptiness such a lit city can bring home. Their accents, questions and lack of direction makes our ears ring. They don't understand us. They know that we are free While we fear they'll reprimand us For feeling free enough to agree that A little while back new York fucked up the family tree that brings us all together, and we're Losing hopes due to the note that we might have fucked up forever. We don't mind our own endeavors enough To hide the disdain because It costs us to breathe. We often don't complain because the garners had it worse and Their hearts may never be at ease under a ruler that will never be pleased (If so are we...)
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