From (probably faulty) memory -
Native New Yorker
Running pretty New York city girl
(twenty-five, thirty-five?).
Hello, baby, New York city girl.
You grew up riding the subways, running with people
up in Harlem, down on Broadway.
You're no tramp but you're no lady.
Talking that city talk.
You're the heart and soul of New York city.
And love, love is just a passing word.
It's the thought you had in a taxicab that got left on the curb
when he dropped you off at east Eighty-third.
Oh, you're a native New Yorker.
You should know the score by now.
You're a native New Yorker.
Music plays, everyone's dancing closer and closer,
making friends and finding lovers.
There you are, lost in the shadows, searching for someone
to set you free from New York city.
And, oh, where did all those yesterdays go
when you still believed love could really be like a Broadway show?
You were the star. When did it close?
Oh, you're a native New Yorker.
No one opens the door
for a native New Yorker.
(Running pretty New York city girl)
You were the star. When did it close?
Oh, you're a native New Yorker.
You should know the score by now.
You're a native New Yorker.
Cheers,
Carla