It's September in New York City Days shorten and their balmy evenings Populate piano bars with jaded journalists Wordsmiths of world-weary wisdom Authors of an uncertain age Who're handsomely paid to pit their pithy wits By penning pieces impaling the mood of the moment Zooming in on the zeitgeist The barmen are there to pour them all one more, One more and one more for the road But theirs is never a novel Only an endless stream of counted column inches Which map the monthlies, weeklies and dailies Of this city's magazine stands It's the late 1940s What drives their writing is a blend of alcohol and chain-smoking With a war just won Their thoughts tumble as freely as autumn's falling leaves And cynicism rules