First time in New York, just seventeen in a motel full of poets, drunks and queens. I walk the city streets into the night to see Manhattan in the early morning light. On the corner of a street they laugh and talk, the young men watch me coming, block my walk; they see me slow right down - they know I don't belong. Then all at once ... they all break into song.
https://primoaccordo.net/chumbawamba/new-york-song.htm