welcome to new york in the wintertime
the sadness on the streets is all but inside
still the desperate ask for smokes with their frozen hands
its best just not to think there was a mother for each man
i'll roll a cigarette for a fairy tale
and pick my pockets clean for some hot air in my sail
like "what we'll be is not determined by who we were"
and that "we're not all meant for the modern world"
if you decide to stay we'll be flesh and bone
you'll start being alive and i'll stop living alone
i want to know does feeling old lighten up with age
as we lose the strength to shoulder all the blame
you say that age is just a number we can't escape
but i prepare each night to wake and die after the dawn breaks
you say that we should ride the fuck out of here
and i know that you're right but i'll stay for just one more year
