| If you start here late, no one will know what you did
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| No, the streets are straight, it’s the soul that’s crooked
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| I’ve been treated fine, I’ve been treated elegantly
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| But I’m not one for bathing in the waters of plenty no
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| East is east and west is west
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| The Bowery is screaming while Delancey rests
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| Well, I’m south of skating, but I’m north of the cash
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| I could sure use the money but I’m ashamed to ask
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| The traffic has buried all of last night’s rain
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| The words are all different but the accent is the same
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| The sun is white, the moon is gray
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| The river is black, blue and green
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| The young are young, the old are old
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| There are no shades of gray in between
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| There’s at least ten different strains of smoke in the air
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| And my prints are on them all to prove I was there
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| I love the curses, but I’m not one for the trenches
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| Yes I do love the walking but I thank God for the benches
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| It’s hard to tell where green begins and the city gray stops
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| I guess the trees all bought their armor at second hand shops
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| My second hand is working but the minute hand broke again
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| I know time will pass but I don’t know when
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| The sun is white, the moon is gray
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| The river is black, blue and green
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| The young are young, and the old are old
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| There are no shades of gray in between
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| There are no shades of gray in between
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| I know the great ones have been here, but where I can’t tell
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| There’s dreams here a plenty, but they’re being withheld
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| And I’m more impressed with the closed doors than the ones that are open
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| The whole place tells time by a tower clock that’s broken
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| The pigeons are ravens and the gulls are vultures
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| And trash is art and cash is culture
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| The sun is white, the moon is gray
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| And the river is black, blue and green
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| The young are young, the old are old
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| There are no shades of gray in between
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| There are no shades of gray in between
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| No shades of gray in between |