Port Authority

I can't know the song of the south
When my needle points north
The blue south elegant with lovely lakes
Eyes in a smiling river on fire
Look at me

Ate the tailor whose fine linens he knows
Makes a man out of safety pins proud as an Indian
I figure in future years, I’ll be stained by the tears
Of desperate clinging

Miracle girls, commercially perfect
Excel at port authority
Shall I run out to meet your hopes
Of liquor, tobacco and chocolate?
Up on chalk-leg mirror mountain, subtle and juicy