| Over there
|
| In the cold
|
| Stands the Hustler
|
| His eyes are old
|
| He has seen a million ugly scenes
|
| Places where men droop with mould
|
| The backrooms
|
| Where soiled goods are sold
|
| Seen with opened eyes since frail fifteen
|
| He has found it hard at first
|
| But on his brow there sits a curse
|
| For when the young must suffer
|
| At the hands of men
|
| Memories of Christmas past
|
| Were never there to ever last
|
| Things as were can never
|
| Be again
|
| Over there
|
| By the wall
|
| Stands the Hustler
|
| He’s not very tall
|
| He’s trampled by the jaded by the sly
|
| He’s seen the darker side of men
|
| First fascinated and then
|
| He found his urge to laugh
|
| An urge to cry
|
| He’ll find close friends
|
| No friend at all
|
| He feels so lonely, tired and small
|
| How few are chosen from
|
| The golden call
|
| There’s something in us all it seems
|
| To crave adventure
|
| Hunt for dreams
|
| But corruption the seducer spoils our schemes
|
| And surely as the snow will melt
|
| The Hustler
|
| Grabs his soul and heads for home
|
| With lessons learnt under his belt
|
| Over there
|
| By the wall
|
| Stands the Hustler
|
| With the men of law
|
| On either side to flank the sallow youth
|
| But some of us will never learn
|
| It takes the blow of fists to burn
|
| How painfully we suffer for the truth |