E. B. White - Boston Is Like No Other Place in the World, Only More So lyrics

When I am out of funds and sorts And life is all in snarls, I quit New York and travel east To Boston on the Charles. In Boston, life is smoother far, It's easier and freer, Where every boy's a Harvard man And every man's a skier. There's something in the Boston scene So innocent, so tranquil, It takes and holds my interest The same as any bank will. For Boston's not a capital, And Boston's not a place; Rather I think that Boston is A sort of state of grace. The people's lives in Boston Are flowers blown in gla**; On Commonwealth, on Beacon, They bow and speak and pa**. No man grows old in Boston, No lady ever dies; No youth is ever wicked, No infant ever cries. No orthodox Bostonian Is lonely or dejected, For everyone in Boston With everyone's connected. So intricate the pattern, The barroom of the Ritz Becomes a jigsaw puzzle Each life a piece that fits. Each Boston girl is swept along Down the predestined channel To where she meets a Boston boy Alert in Brooksian flannel, Magnificent in fallen socks, His hair like stubble weeds, His elbow patch an earnest of The fellowship of tweeds. When Muzak plays in Boston, It wakes celestial stings, And I can sit in Boston And think of many things. For Boston's not a capital, And Boston's not a place; Rather I feel that Boston is The perfect state of grace. After a week of Boston I rise and take the train And I am always very glad To see New York again. New York seems doubly beautiful, Its air as clear as Heaven's; New York – where life is always At sixes and at sevens, Where no one ever marries right, And girls go off their trolley, And young men go to NYU, To Fordham, and to Poly, Where hackmen have peculiar names And relatives afar, And one can watch the Chrysler spire Bisect the morning star.