Glasgow is my New York,
though our ‘cabs’ are painted black,
our summers filled with rain and booze,
our sidewalks full of cracks,
our Bronx is known as Easterhouse,
our Brooklyn, Maryhill,
our Brooklyn Bridge is squiggly,
pound coins are dollar bills,
our image is still gritty,
and though New York doesn’t love you,
Glasgow will until the day you die,
even if that’s because it plugged you,
Our Yankees play in green and white,
our Mets they play in blue,
our junkies stay as high as yours,
our crime rate’s that way too,
and we don’t have a Lady Liberty,
no we can’t compete with that,
but we have my good man Wellington,
who wears a traffic cone as a hat