c'mon and love me

This place has a murk all its own. Not something one can describe. They say you gotta live in Manhattan at least once in your life, I dunno, but the D is, well, what it is. You make cars or maybe beer, or you make parts of cars or just money from people making cars. You put your kids through college and retire at 50. You uproot a neighborhood to put in an artery. Your gray skies yield snow but only when it's not raining. You decay while those who can build half-million dollar houses along dirt roads to the west. You sprawl till your belts break the sound barrier during rush hour. But in the theaters and clubs and music shops they have none of it. For the life of me I'll never fathom how you were blessed with such a buffet, a veritable rainbow of talent and insistence, a sheer V-8 driven creative powerhouse on wheels. Then in the mid-70s some boys from NYC were struggling to make a splash, along with their label. You were good to them and they never forgot you for it. Can't help but wonder if the muse was a real woman or just a well-crafted cloud in a hungry songwriter's sky, in dim lighting on a sultry eve where you read what you want written on her face. Seduction is not so much a game as an admission of selling out. That which you seek to own will own you.