| High above Manhattan town
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| What floats and has a shape like that
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| Fans like us who watch the skies
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| We know it’s Morph the Cat
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| Gliding like a big blue cloud
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| From Tomkins Square to Upper Broadway
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| Beyond the park to Sugar Hill
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| Stops a minute for a latte
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| He oozes down the heating duct
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| Swims like seaweed down the hall
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| He briefly digs your wiggy pad
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| And seeps out through the wall
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| It’s kind of like an arctic mindbath
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| Cool and sweet and slightly rough
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| Liquid light on New York City
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| Like Christmas without the chintzy stuff
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| What exactly does he want
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| This Rabelaisian puff of smoke
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| To make you feel all warm and cozy
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| Like you heard a good joke
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| Like you heard an Arlen tune
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| Or you bought yourself a crazy hat
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| Like you had a Mango Cooler
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| Ooh — Morph the Cat
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| He’s all the talk in shops and schoolyards
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| Sultan Place — the Automat
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| Players playin' in da Bronx
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| Respects to Morph the Cat
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| It’s kind of like an arctic mindbath
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| Cool and sweet and slightly rough
|
| Liquid light on New York City
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| Like Christmas without the chintzy stuff
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| So rich is his charisma
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| You can almost hear it sing
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| He skims the roofs
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| And bells begin to ring
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| Chinese cashiers can feel it now
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| Grand old gals at evening mass
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| Young racketeers
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| And teenage models
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| Laughing on the grass
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| Blessed Yankees have an ally
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| When this feline comes to bat
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| Bringing joy to old Manhattan
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| All watch the skies for Morph the Cat |