Coney Island

Those old birds
I mean ladies
Who hang out on the pier
Hear every single mistake
Their own children make
They try and collide and chide
Chucking pistachio shells over the side

While young
And not-so-young men
Watch for unsavory women throwing stones, ha!
And grinning
They flock upon a lass
Like a pack of albatross

But now it's October
All those people, oh!
They are gone, gone, gone
The sun now focuses its knife-like rays
On brand-new roofs
In the break of dawn

The place was old and fried and dirty
There was broken glass as far as we could see
Even the salty water was unclean
I still remember the way you grabbed me
On the boardwalk, tenderly

You said, "Come here, baby
Get your picture taken with me"
Yeah, you said, "Come here, baby
Get your picture taken with me," yeah