The Wicked City
In Little Old New York, New York,
That town the country rails at so,
The devil wields his busy fork
And pitches many souls below.
But - out in moral Kokomo
He gest as big a share to fry
He grabs a greater number, though,
In Little Old new York, N.Y.
In Little Old new York, New York,
Are many cruel hearts and cold;
No sentiment do they uncork,
They care for nothing, only gold.
But - there are folks like that, I'm told,
In other places you pass by,
Not all the money-mad we hold
In Little Old New York, N.Y.
In little Old New York, New York,
Five million people live and toil:
The trains, the ships, and eke the stork
Are ever adding to the moil.
And some there be who crush and spoil,
And some who waste in revel high,
But most just make the kettle boil
In Little Old New York, N.Y.
In Little Old new York, New York,
You find the thing you seek to find:
The revelers who pull the cork,--
The people simple, honest, kind;
Vice,--if to vice you are inclined,--
Or virtue; truth or eke a lie,--
Whatever seems to suit your mind,
In Little Old New York, N.Y.
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