To say stars illuminate our path is untrue.

Here, we light our own way with LEDs.

The night sky is black not blue,

But it shines as would your old CDs.

The city that never sleeps,

Not the city of love.

Rush hour and dirty streets,

Not a clean white dove.

We see what we want to and make our own choices;

In this incubator we’re born to use our voices.

We, New Yorkers, have control over the switches,

We take action and don’t rely on wishes.

And we may seem like realists, but most are dreamers;

We often act tough and don’t seem like believers,

But this place, this city, is our fairy tale;

We have our own way of living, and it isn’t stale.

Energy, in The City is inhaled like eucalyptus;

It feels cold, not sweet, but it’s made for us;

It lingers in the streets like the glow of traffic lights

And like our winter snow it doesn’t soothe, it bites.

For generations all have come to breathe our air 

In hopes of feeling the drive that we live on;

But it’s a high reserved to us, and it’s beyond rare,

For this is the city of the triumphant, not the pawns.

New York is a city of senses, a classic video game, if you will, 

It’s the rush, the fantasy, it’s be killed or kill;

It’s racing a mustang without a license, and it hurts and stings;

It’s the percussion in the orchestra, not the strings;

It’s for the reckless who come in search of fame;

To hear the city, the only one that can scream their name...