McGuinn-Crosby-Clark



Eight miles high and when you touch down 

You'll find that it's stranger than known 

Signs in the street that say where you're goin' 

Are somewhere just being their own.



Nowhere is their warmth to be found 

Among those afraid of losing their ground 

Rain, grey town known for its sound 

In places, small faces unbound.



'Round the squares huddled in storms 

Some laughing, some just shapeless forms 

Sidewalk scenes and black limousines 

Some living, some standing alone.