McGuinn-Crosby-Clark
Eight miles high and when you touch down
You'll find that it's stranger than known
Signs in the street that say where you're goin'
Are somewhere just being their own.
Nowhere is their warmth to be found
Among those afraid of losing their ground
Rain, grey town known for its sound
In places, small faces unbound.
'Round the squares huddled in storms
Some laughing, some just shapeless forms
Sidewalk scenes and black limousines
Some living, some standing alone.
