Story Behind the Song
A couple of years ago, the Mrs. and I took a little trip to the Big Apple. We were just a couple of lost tourists looking for a little art and culture. On our last night there, we stumbled upon a little club in the Village where the music just swallowed us up.
Lyrics
We rode in to Penn Station on a West bound rail,
Took the 8:05 out of New London,
as the night slowly paled.
Swooped through the shadows
as we slid through the underground,
past the scrawls of the poets,
and the comfort in words that they found.
Hula girl danced on the dash,
as we rode through the town.
Bongos played Jamaican rhythms,
as the radio drowned.
"Hey taxi driver won't you
sing me your latest song."
He cuts so deep as we knifed,
through the zombie-eyed throng.
Two Pineapples in New York City,
Where the girls are randy and the boys are pretty.
Buildings scream as they scrape the sky,
the jungle swings while the night defies.
we've got no love and we got no pity,
We're just Two Pineapples in New York City.
We toured the sights of the city,
in a poor man's limousine.
With the windows rolled up,
Mr. Fuji, he captured the scene.
While the lady in green
waded in the incoming tide,
The birds took the park,
where the colors of life seem to hide.
Stepping on the stones,
at the corner of Bleecker and McDougal.
Bobby played the square,
while the juggler, he played the fool.
Then the night shrieked in pain,
as the day met it's bitter end.
We stared at the stage and said
"oh, so this is where it's happening."
I could live in NY City,
if you really wanted me to,
though I come from an island,
somewhere on the backside of the moon.
Where the breeze is invisible,
and laced with it's infectious perfume.
Where the palm trees sway,
and the flowers impatiently bloom.
Two Pineapples, in New York City....
bruce bolos...bass
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