N.Y.C.D.

I can’t say that I'm sorry
I can’t help where I'm born
Does it feel like Armageddon
Or the rain before the storm

Whisper me a warning
Or yell me your last chance
The [?] may be burning
But New York cannot dance

Walk through the doors of the Chelsea Hotel
The man will lead the way if you ring the bell
The yellow wood start smoking
But he just can't, no he just can't

Well?? Maybe burning
New York cannot dance

The suits are straight from London
The suits are from Rome
The drinks are on me
If you go home

Where the heroin... Is pure Afghanistan
And the money, is red white and blue
That's you, that's American
That's American!