| He shuffled up a pair of surfer slippers and an old tweed blazer
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| Asked you for a quarter and you looked the other way
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| He leaned up against the tow zone sign and just in time for you to avert your
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| eyes
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| Said «Good morning sir, have a nice day»
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| She wears four wool winter hats all year round
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| And mumbles and sometimes screams
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| He wears a coat made of burlap sacks and sits in parking lots
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| Never asking anyone for anything
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| He’s the old black guy with the shopping cart
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| She’s the old lady with the bright blue sweat pants
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| They’re the two young white squatter kids
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| With dirty undershirts and rotten teeth
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| He’s the guy who hangs out underneath the overpass
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| Shouting curse words at passing motorists
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| Or the guy who passed in my alley
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| Who drank until his life made any sense
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| He’s the hustler on the train
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| Or his four accomplices
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| Living on three tattered playing cards
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| And slight of hand
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| He’s Darren in front of 7−11 on Walton and State
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| She’s Babs up and down on Belmont right by the train
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| He’s Buddy and his wife in uptown by the Aragon
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| He’s Andy selling streetwise at the white hen in boys town
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| He was Ed from the south side
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| Who gave me cigarettes and hope
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| At the Walgreens on Belden and Clark
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| Where inspiration dies alone
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| Yeah, these are the people in your neighborhood
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| In your neighborhood, in your neighborhood
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| These are the people in your neighborhood
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| They’re the people you don’t see
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| When you’re walking down the street
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| They’re the people you don’t see each day |