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