Come see the vampires of New York...
Come lose your mind in Central Park...
But don't leave your soul behind.
Come take in 8th Street after dark...
Such peculiar people you'll remark.
You might even see a murder.
And all the whores on Bleecker Street,
They wear the blissful grin
Caused by the drugs they take
To relieve them of their sins.
And "Oh, oh, Lord, I think she's dying", I heard somebody say.
"I think she's dying" and "oh, oh, Lord, I think she's dying".
Or maybe she's already dead and maybe she's gone to Mars.
Maybe we could even write her epitaph in the stars.
It'd say "If you go away from here... If you go a million miles...
Come downtown to see them go into the den of the vampires of New York,
But please watch your step as you're getting off, kids."