| Faces
|
| Cracked for reason beyond recognition
|
| Uh-huh
|
| His space is
|
| At the Palace, he sleeps for twenty five cents
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| Uh-huh
|
| Now he’s wiping headlights
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| Windshields with an old rag
|
| It isn’t nine to five
|
| Down and dirty, he’s an old tramp
|
| He poses like a dead man
|
| The night train passes by
|
| Money’s
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| Not the answer for princes and dancers
|
| Uh-huh
|
| He’s standing under street lights
|
| He’s thinking of his old life
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| He lost his pretty young wife
|
| The corner is his big plan
|
| His brunch with Jim and jitters
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| Boston blue laws isn’t for shitters
|
| And newsprint is for cheaters
|
| Cement mattress for believers
|
| A dirty old bum
|
| He’s a dirty old bum
|
| He can’t say «Yes»
|
| He can’t forget it A dirty old bum
|
| Now he’s shooting power curves
|
| His buddies think he’s got some nerve
|
| Mrs Face had other lovers
|
| Her arms smothered other numbers
|
| He freezes
|
| Christmas season, all saints protect him
|
| Uh-huh
|
| His face is
|
| Cracked for reason beyond recognition
|
| Ah |