Lyrics
Verse 1:
In the neon glow of a coffee shop, where the vinyl spins and beatniks hop,
A checkerboard floor, under shadowed lore, and the espresso machine does a non-stop bop.
Silver spoons and ceramic cups, with tales as deep as the coffee they sup,
A rhythm in the buzz, a buzz in the room, where words are woven and thoughts loom.
Chorus:
Ride on the subway, a tin can symphony, where dreams are ticketed, and reality's slippery.
In the heart of the city, where the soul coughs and hums,
We dance to the beat of our own different drums.
Verse 2:
A saxophone wails on a street corner stage, serenading the night, breaking free from its cage.
With a hat full of change, and eyes full of stories, it plays to the rhythm of urban glories.
Sidewalks crackle with the spark of steps, under moonlit whispers and secrets kept.
A mosaic of moments, in the city's embrace, where every shadow has a name, every light a face.
Chorus:
Ride on the subway, a tin can symphony, where dreams are ticketed, and reality's slippery.
In the heart of the city, where the soul coughs and hums,
We dance to the beat of our own different drums.
Verse 3:
In the glow of a screen, in the dead of the night, where the digital dreams and reality fight,
A world in a pixel, a story in a byte, with every scroll, a new height.
The whispers of code, in a silent ode, where the mind meets the road,
In the web's wide world, where secrets unfurl, and the untold stories are finally told.
Bridge:
But beyond the glass, the city breathes, in and out, a silent seethe,
A dance of light, a shadow's wreath, where time stands still beneath.
And we find ourselves, between the bits, in the silence, where the soul sits,
Listening to the city's wits, and the wisdom it transmits.
Chorus:
Ride on the subway, a tin can symphony, where dreams are ticketed, and reality's slippery.
In the heart of the city, where the soul coughs and hums,
We dance to the beat of our own different drums.
Chorus:
Ride on the subway, a tin can symphony, where dreams are ticketed, and reality's slippery.
In the heart of the city, where the soul coughs and hums,
We dance to the beat of our own different drums.
