The Trouble With New York 1954

        The Trouble With New York

The trouble with New York is the weather,

Cause the weather always seems to make me sweat.

The trouble with New York is the subways.

Father Knick goes right on selling beer while I stand and fret.

I can’t stand its nights,

Or its unceasing lights;

The stars remain from sight while oe’r its banks.

And I may be a snob,

But I can’t stand the mob

That goes to Coney and gets ptomaine on franks.

The trouble with New York is the traffic,

Cause the traffic always seems to get me down.

But the trouble with New York,

The ‘worstest’ trouble with New York

Is that you just came into town.

The trouble with New York is the weather.

Do I have to say that word humidity?

The trouble with New York is the weather.

And you know how horrid torrid days can be.

It ain’t got England’s fog,

California’s’ smog,

Or the Mississippi floods that rush.

But I’ll bet you ain’t seen

Forty-second Street clean

When each New Yorker’s done his job making slush.

The trouble with New York is the weather.

On those icy street one falls upon one’s face.

But the New York streets I’d roam

If you’ only go on home,

And get out of this g-d damned place.

©The Trouble With New York 1.54 (idea by Bud Charles Strouse)

Lyrics;

Arlene Corwin

 

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