Seventeen and closet queen,
Flashing purple on the screen,
Showing pictures of rotten ladies tainted green.
She recommends to live and die,
You've become a victim of dim lit lights,
And in doing so, you're just immortal in your own eyes.
Twenty-four and losing control,
Speeding past and taking its toll,
And for what?
Somebody told you, "it's gonna be better, man."
You'd rather bite the bullet than kick the can,
You'd rather be a mouse than be a man,
And all those big blank thoughts are making you sick again.
She hails a cab and gestures to him,
He's wearing a suicidal grin,
All full of broken thoughts and crumbled ideologies,
Stylish tee to match his eye,
Cocaine buzz, with a cocaine design,
Consisting of Utopian worlds where the policeman jumps for the gun in the sky,
Hanging by a rope and always slightly out of reach,
He tries to grab the trigger but can't seem,
To get his hands on his heart,
You'd rather bite the bullet than kick the can,
You'd rather be a mouse than be a man
And all those big blank thoughts are making you sick again.
The weathered soul of the metropolis rots from people too glamorous for their own good
and is damaged by lucid epitaphs of apathy
flowery delusions of the lower east side
a broken mirror baby finally takes a stand"¦.
New York City , the only and only
New York City is very lonely
New York City, fuck in lonely
New York,
New York.