1176: Goodbye, New York (song from the wrong side of the Hudson) | Deborah Garrison
"Goodbye, New York
(song from the wrong side of the Hudson)"
Deborah Garrison
You were the big fat city we called hometown
You were the lyrics I sang but never wrote down
You were the lively graves by the highway in Queens
the bodega where I bought black beans
stacks of the Times we never read
nights we never went to bed
the radio jazz, the doughnut cart
the dogs off their leashes in Tompkins Square Park
You were the tiny brass mailbox key
the joy of "us" and the sorrow of "me"
You were the balcony bar in Grand Central Station
the blunt commuters and their destination
the post-wedding blintzes at 4 A.M.
and the pregnant waitress we never saw again
You were the pickles, you were the jar
You were the prizefight we watched in a bar
the sloppy kiss in the basement at Nell's
the occasional truth that the fortune cookie tells
Sinatra still swinging at Radio City
You were ugly and gorgeous but never pretty
always the question, never the answer
the difficult poet, the aging dancer
the call I made from a corner phone
to a friend in need, who wasn't at home
the fireworks we watched from a tenement roof
the brash allegations and the lack of any proof
my skyline, my byline, my buzzer and door
now you're the dream we lived before
(song from the wrong side of the Hudson)"
Deborah Garrison
You were the big fat city we called hometown
You were the lyrics I sang but never wrote down
You were the lively graves by the highway in Queens
the bodega where I bought black beans
stacks of the Times we never read
nights we never went to bed
the radio jazz, the doughnut cart
the dogs off their leashes in Tompkins Square Park
You were the tiny brass mailbox key
the joy of "us" and the sorrow of "me"
You were the balcony bar in Grand Central Station
the blunt commuters and their destination
the post-wedding blintzes at 4 A.M.
and the pregnant waitress we never saw again
You were the pickles, you were the jar
You were the prizefight we watched in a bar
the sloppy kiss in the basement at Nell's
the occasional truth that the fortune cookie tells
Sinatra still swinging at Radio City
You were ugly and gorgeous but never pretty
always the question, never the answer
the difficult poet, the aging dancer
the call I made from a corner phone
to a friend in need, who wasn't at home
the fireworks we watched from a tenement roof
the brash allegations and the lack of any proof
my skyline, my byline, my buzzer and door
now you're the dream we lived before