Riding on the 7 Flushing Local
New York subway rolls out of Times Square
eight steel cars and fifteen hundred riders
one motorman and twenty panhandlers there.

And no one knows just what it means
it rolls under the river to Queens
toward Flushing Meadow and the Mets' ballfield
passing trains that no longer run
apartment buildings all but gone
and the graveyards of rusted automobiles.

Good morning, New York City, how are ya?
Say, don't ya know me? I'm your native son?
I'm the train they call the 7 Flushing Local.
I'll be gone ten losing miles when the day is done.

Teenagers rapping with their Walkmans
others fiddle with the dial, trying to get the score
emerging from the grave to the elevated
and Queensboro Plaza's rumblin' 'neath the floor.

And the sons of Brooklyn butchers
and the daughters of North Bronx girls
ride their parents' magic carpets made of steel
giggling schoolgirls find their stop
the violinist's really a cop
and that squeezed-in sardine feeling's all they feel.

Good day, New York City, how are ya?
Say, don't ya know me? I'm your native son?
I'm the train they call the 7 Flushing Local.
I'll be gone ten losing miles when the day is done.

Nighttime on the 7 Flushing Local
transfer 74th and Broadway
halfway home, we'll be there by midnight
through the salsa-tuned darkness, rolling through meringue.

But all the folks who chew their gum
passing by Shea Stadium
and the Unisphere still ain't heard the news:
Another game lost by the Mets
the Yankees won, you can't forget
this train's got the disappointing baseball blues.

Good night, New York City, how are ya?
Say, don't ya know me? I'm your native son?
I'm the train they call the 7 Flushing Local.
I'll be gone ten losing miles when the day is done.