Soft light, bitch's den,
Singing loud and clear,
They love you,
So do I,
Wonder how you knock on doors,
Be born in Big Apple and walk those roads,
Couldn't do better.
You wash their marble skin,
In tingles and groans,
"Oh My God!"
Elite in dens with tossed reasons,
Where sea washes away sand at will,
Look they are at least pretending.
You are God's will my friend,
Rest a while and,
Let me take your part,
In my own street.