Manhattan

There's a broken typewriter on her desk,
next to the needles
and next to the track lines
that're screaming at the streetlights,
screaming at the corner she's under,
“Manhattan, baby, save me, save me!”

And she knows that it's wrong;
she knows that there ain't no fuckin' chance in hell
that the fractured cross hangin' 'round her neck's
gonna get her into Heaven now.

She's got gold for eyes
and rubies for lips.
Save her Manhattan, baby, save her please.

She's delusional,
she's a mess, a mess, a mess, a mess,
and oh, please take advantage of her
track line arms.

Chained and afraid,
naked and scathed,
oh Manhattan, baby, save her, save her.

“Manhattan, baby, save me, save me!”
Manhattan, baby, save me, save me.