[I might use the itinerary someday as the guy's familiar with Manhattan, although not all places still stand.]
Hush, little baby, don't say a word.
Papa's gonna take you to West 43rd,
The street where Benchley and Harold Ross
And Dorothy Parker hit the sauce
As the copy editors hit the caffeine
And put out The New Yorker magazine.
If literary history is not an inspiration,
Papa will take you to Grand Central Station
And if the Oyster Bar is fresh out of oysters,
We'll take the subway up to the Cloisters,
And if the tapestries do not please,
Papa will take you to Tiffany's
And if the diamonds don't glitter like they oughta,
Papa will take you to La Traviata
And if the Violetta does not sing prettily,
Papa will take you to Little Italy
And if the pasta's too soft and the wine's too dry,
I'll take you to the 92nd Street Y
And if the poetry reading's a bore
And the metaphors you've heard before
And the poet's muse is a much too solemn muse,
Papa's gonna take you to St. Bartholomew's
And if the pews don't give enough knee room,
Papa's gonna take you to the Russian Tea Room
And if that scene is too serene,
We'll stop in at Picholine
And if the poached perch pate pales,
Papa will take you to Bloomingdale's
And if Bloomingdale's doesn't quite bloom,
We'll head west and visit Grant's Tomb
And if his tomb fills you with gloom,
I'll take you up to the Rainbow Room
And if the Rainbow makes you blue,
We'll stop and see the Central Park Zoo
And if those polar bears are in a coma,
We'll go to an exhibition at MoMA
And if art is not what you had in mind,
We'll head west and see what we find.
Ninth Avenue in the 50s is lined
With joints where one can be wined and dined
And there Papa's credit card will be declined.
His American Express is expressionless.
He's been deVisaed and unMastered,
All because of you, you beautiful child.
Then we'll pack our bags and head for home
Out on the range where the buffalo roam,
Back to the farm to pay our debts
And live on Cheez Whiz and Cremettes.
We'll slop the hogs and milk the cows
And take in boarders at our house,
Drive a school bus, mow the lawns,
dig the ditches, clean the johns,
And eventually when the money's made,
And the pigs are sold and the bills are paid,
We'll put down the shovel and the pitchfork,
And get dressed up and come back to New York.
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