Each day I wait to be written and end up at your door
I’m qualified and patronised, ‘cause it’s you I’m working for
I’ll give you sunshine for today, and the weather for the week
I use so many pretty words that I make good words look cheap
And I’ll tell you the things that you want and it’s fine
I’m the New Yorker, I’m the Sunday Times
And I’ll do anything for the last word it’s mine
I’m Revelation, I’m the New York Times
In the evening radios sing a song that I sang first
I have the eye for corporate beauty, I’m shiny and rehearsed
Some say there’s more vapid stories, but I may tell the worst
And I’ll tell you the things that you want and it’s fine
I’m the New Yorker, I’m the Sunday Times
And I do anything for the last word, it’s mine
I’m Revelation, I’m the New York Times
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