| See him wasted on the sidewalk
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| In his jacket and his jeans
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| Wearing yesterday’s misfortunes like a smile
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| Once he had a future full of money, love and dreams
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| Which he spent like they was going out of style
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| Then he keeps right on a changing
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| For the better or the worse
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| Searching for a shrine he’s never found
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| Never knowing if believing is a blessing or a curse
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| Or if the going up was worth the coming down
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| He’s a poet
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| He’s a picker
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| He’s a prophet
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| He’s a pusher
|
| He’s a pilgrim and a preacher and a problem when he’s stoned
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| He’s a walking contradiction
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| Partly truth and partly fiction
|
| Taking every wrong direction on his lonely way back home
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| He has tasted good and evil in your bedrooms and your bars
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| And he’s traded in tomorrow for today
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| Running from his devils, lord
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| Reaching for the stars
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| Losing all his loves along the way
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| But if this world keeps right on turning
|
| For the better or the worse
|
| All he ever gets is older and around
|
| From the rocking of the cradle
|
| To the rolling of the hearse
|
| The going up was worth the coming down
|
| He’s a poet
|
| He’s a picker
|
| He’s a prophet
|
| He’s a pusher
|
| He’s a pilgrim and a preacher and a problem when he’s stoned
|
| He’s a walking contradiction
|
| Partly truth and partly fiction
|
| Taking every wrong direction on his lonely way back home
|
| There’s a lot of wrong directions on that lonely way back home |