Well New York City, summer sweat, and the boys are rollin their cigarettes. The girls are singin into their phones, but Bobby Fischer is all alone.
The parks are buzzing with the birds and the bees; friends are huggin in twos and threes. Lovers are kissin, and exchanging their rings but Bobby Fischer's playin eighteen kings.
They're screamin and cryin at the YMCA, "Bobby, Bobby, why'd you go away?" His mother's whisperin, quiet and low, "Bobby, Bobby, where did you go?"
The newspapers wrote all over the town from the glistenin skystops to the filth on the ground, they BANG and EXPLODE all over Times Square: "Bobby Is Gone & No One Knows Where."
"Is he in London or is he in Spain? Has he cut off his hair? Has he changed his last name? Is he under that rock? Is he behind that tree?" Oh Bobby, Bobby, where can you be?
Bobby came back with his poor little sack, and his eyes were on fire and his fingernails cracked, screamin and hollerin and stinkin of gin. Oh Bobby, Bobby, where have you been?
"I've traveled this world, chasin the sun. I lived as a king and I lived as a bum. But to answer your question, it's really quite clear: I never was gone, cuz I never was here."
Well they're screamin and cryin at the YMCA, "Bobby, Bobby, why don't you go away?" His mother's whisperin, quiet and low, "Bobby, Bobby, please boy, go."