| Soap box preacher standing on the corner
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| And all the people they would gather round
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| You speak of faith with a blaze of glory
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| But those that fear they wanna knock you down
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| Nobody knows where you live
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| Where do you go in the naked night
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| All of the prophets that come before you
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| They can hear your lonesome cry
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| When you’re out there in the night
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| All alone
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| When you’re staring in the light
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| At the end of the road
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| In those proud shoes, coming on up the alley
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| In those proud shoes, walks all over the sky
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| Then he tipped his hat just like Don Quixote
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| And said don’t let the rapture pass you by
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| Heard a bugle blowing in the misty morning
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| What a haunting sound over Times Square
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| Heard of the ghost of 52nd Street
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| Looked out the door but no one was there
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| Out in the cold Harlem rain
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| I went looking for this minstrel man
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| Played me a song to ease the pain
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| With a Salvation Army band
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| When you’re out there on the dark
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| All alone
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| When you’re sleeping in the park
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| At the end of the road
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| In the neon wilderness and the ashphalt jungle
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| He carries his cross of passion
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| Through the wreckage and the rumble
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| In those proud shoes, coming on up the alley
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| In those proud shoes, walks all over the sky
|
| Then he tipped his hat just like Don Quixote
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| And said don’t let the rapture
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| Don’t let the rapture pass you by
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| Don’t let it pass you by |