| Song | The Apple Stretching |
| Artist | Grace Jones |
| Album | Private Life: The Compass Point Years |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作词 : VanPeebles | |
| The sun comes swaggering across the harbour, | |
| And kisses the lady waiting in the narrows, | |
| She already plenty shaky stands there, | |
| Blushing, clutching the torch of liberty, | |
| Uptown Luigi who dont speak english so good, | |
| Is having an accident, | |
| Backing his dumptruck into the fence, | |
| The tin cans go clattering down the lane, | |
| A drowsy bum thinks its thunder, | |
| And pulls the news over his head to stop the rain. | |
| No, it ain't judgement day, | |
| No, it ain't Armageddon, | |
| It's just the apple stretching and yawning, just morning. | |
| New York putting it's feet on the floor, | |
| It's just the apple stretching and yawning, just morning, | |
| New York putting it's feet on the floor. | |
| Suburban refugees fleeing the cracked cisterns, | |
| Worm ridden fruit trees stream out Grand Central, | |
| Please to be breathing bagels and pollution. | |
| In Time Square new graffiti, old revolutions, | |
| A bag lady is cursing the waiter for giving her a free coffee | |
| Lucky he's a Jesus freak moonlighting, | |
| At the Acme discount store over in Queens, | |
| The burglar alarm starts to scream, | |
| A cop picks out his gun fires one and yells, "FREEZE!". | |
| No, it ain't Worl War Four, | |
| No, it ain't World War Four, | |
| It's just the apple stretching and yawning, just morning, | |
| New York putting its feet on the floor. | |
| Nearby the Hudson a hooker makes a 'U', | |
| To help a blind man to his pew in the park, | |
| Some long ago home training jars the memory, | |
| The bag lady says 'Thank you' and curties. | |
| The herd of beaten tourists limp homeward, | |
| Having bitten off more than they could chew, | |
| Moaning them old big city blues, | |
| Miss Liberty depicts her qualms and grins, | |
| Another subway starts rattling, | |
| And Luigi's cans go clattering down the hill. | |
| No, it ain't some kind of ill wind, | |
| No, it ain't the world coming to an end, | |
| Just the apple stretching and yawning, just morning, | |
| New York putting its feet on the floor. |
| zuo ci : VanPeebles | |
| The sun comes swaggering across the harbour, | |
| And kisses the lady waiting in the narrows, | |
| She already plenty shaky stands there, | |
| Blushing, clutching the torch of liberty, | |
| Uptown Luigi who dont speak english so good, | |
| Is having an accident, | |
| Backing his dumptruck into the fence, | |
| The tin cans go clattering down the lane, | |
| A drowsy bum thinks its thunder, | |
| And pulls the news over his head to stop the rain. | |
| No, it ain' t judgement day, | |
| No, it ain' t Armageddon, | |
| It' s just the apple stretching and yawning, just morning. | |
| New York putting it' s feet on the floor, | |
| It' s just the apple stretching and yawning, just morning, | |
| New York putting it' s feet on the floor. | |
| Suburban refugees fleeing the cracked cisterns, | |
| Worm ridden fruit trees stream out Grand Central, | |
| Please to be breathing bagels and pollution. | |
| In Time Square new graffiti, old revolutions, | |
| A bag lady is cursing the waiter for giving her a free coffee | |
| Lucky he' s a Jesus freak moonlighting, | |
| At the Acme discount store over in Queens, | |
| The burglar alarm starts to scream, | |
| A cop picks out his gun fires one and yells, " FREEZE!". | |
| No, it ain' t Worl War Four, | |
| No, it ain' t World War Four, | |
| It' s just the apple stretching and yawning, just morning, | |
| New York putting its feet on the floor. | |
| Nearby the Hudson a hooker makes a ' U', | |
| To help a blind man to his pew in the park, | |
| Some long ago home training jars the memory, | |
| The bag lady says ' Thank you' and curties. | |
| The herd of beaten tourists limp homeward, | |
| Having bitten off more than they could chew, | |
| Moaning them old big city blues, | |
| Miss Liberty depicts her qualms and grins, | |
| Another subway starts rattling, | |
| And Luigi' s cans go clattering down the hill. | |
| No, it ain' t some kind of ill wind, | |
| No, it ain' t the world coming to an end, | |
| Just the apple stretching and yawning, just morning, | |
| New York putting its feet on the floor. |
| zuò cí : VanPeebles | |
| The sun comes swaggering across the harbour, | |
| And kisses the lady waiting in the narrows, | |
| She already plenty shaky stands there, | |
| Blushing, clutching the torch of liberty, | |
| Uptown Luigi who dont speak english so good, | |
| Is having an accident, | |
| Backing his dumptruck into the fence, | |
| The tin cans go clattering down the lane, | |
| A drowsy bum thinks its thunder, | |
| And pulls the news over his head to stop the rain. | |
| No, it ain' t judgement day, | |
| No, it ain' t Armageddon, | |
| It' s just the apple stretching and yawning, just morning. | |
| New York putting it' s feet on the floor, | |
| It' s just the apple stretching and yawning, just morning, | |
| New York putting it' s feet on the floor. | |
| Suburban refugees fleeing the cracked cisterns, | |
| Worm ridden fruit trees stream out Grand Central, | |
| Please to be breathing bagels and pollution. | |
| In Time Square new graffiti, old revolutions, | |
| A bag lady is cursing the waiter for giving her a free coffee | |
| Lucky he' s a Jesus freak moonlighting, | |
| At the Acme discount store over in Queens, | |
| The burglar alarm starts to scream, | |
| A cop picks out his gun fires one and yells, " FREEZE!". | |
| No, it ain' t Worl War Four, | |
| No, it ain' t World War Four, | |
| It' s just the apple stretching and yawning, just morning, | |
| New York putting its feet on the floor. | |
| Nearby the Hudson a hooker makes a ' U', | |
| To help a blind man to his pew in the park, | |
| Some long ago home training jars the memory, | |
| The bag lady says ' Thank you' and curties. | |
| The herd of beaten tourists limp homeward, | |
| Having bitten off more than they could chew, | |
| Moaning them old big city blues, | |
| Miss Liberty depicts her qualms and grins, | |
| Another subway starts rattling, | |
| And Luigi' s cans go clattering down the hill. | |
| No, it ain' t some kind of ill wind, | |
| No, it ain' t the world coming to an end, | |
| Just the apple stretching and yawning, just morning, | |
| New York putting its feet on the floor. |