Port Authority

I can't know the song of the south When my needle points north The blue south elegant with lovely lakes Eyes in a smiling river on fire Look at me Ate the tailor whose fine linens he knows Makes a man out of safety pins proud as an Indian I figure in future years, I’ll be stained by the tears Of desperate clinging Miracle girls, commercially perfect Excel at port authority Shall I run out to meet your hopes Of liquor, tobacco and chocolate? Up on chalk-leg mirror mountain, subtle and juicy