| Two tall cans and the cheapest cigarettes to relieve
|
| An honest man and another honest day of working.
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| It’ll help him through the night;
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| It’ll help him get some sleep.
|
| Then he’s up again and he’s standing on the corner hoping
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| His dirty hands can once again earn him a living.
|
| Then it’s to the liquor store
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| Another night spent on the street
|
| Then a thought occurs to me With a knot inside my throat I balance on A rope thinner than feet a thousand feet above
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| A canyon floor with one exception;
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| Everyone can clearly see the safety net waiting
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| For my falling body.
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| Look deep inside of muscles sore; |
| there’s acid eating
|
| But there’s still life in spite of everything retreating
|
| Because a day of work still beats
|
| Not having any days at all.
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| What good is pride? |
| It never stopped a stomach aching
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| What good are rights when all you want is to be eating?
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| A little shelter from the rain
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| A little comfort in the cold
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| A stubborn thought it sickens me And I never learned a better lesson
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| Than what I can’t articulate about a smile and a sense of something better
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| In what should be desolate and desperate
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| Disenfranchised and disappointing and so distraught
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| I’m a fake a fraud a phone every step I take
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| In a broken smile, he reminded me My net is bigger than a falling body.
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| My hands are clean but my soul is dirty. |