New York, New York

The place I'm at, it's no joke,
The streets, they smell of cold and smoke.
Shoes, like rainbows, shine on feet,
As herds of people cross the street.
The buildings, up and up they rise,
To touch the heavens, each one tries.
Jammed together, shop on shop,
Endless rows - they never stop.
Flashing screens, they catch the eye,
Each one screaming that I must buy,
That their product is what I need,
To live life and to succeed.
There are eating places of each cuisine,
Thai, Irish and French as neighbors are seen.
The people are from so many parts,
One city owned by a million hearts.
They guide the tourists who come in loads,
They own the bridges and the roads.
They own this city that's hard to grapple,
It's NYC, the Big, Bold, Apple.