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Another empty bottle left for dead is ringing in my head. Feel the bite from the cold like a needle thrust between my eyes. This game will just go on. Another drinking song and I’m the one to blame. I’m left here with the shame.
The sidewalk feels so cold as the onlookers behold while I play another fucking trenchcoat song. The more, the merrier, but then come the remarks. “He’s got food stuck in his beard.” Now does that make me weird?
You are judging the wrong man, because I’m just an artist singing in the street. Pouring my heart for you. No, I’m not your average business man, you see.
I pour my heart and they just drop a dime. But how could I ask for more? I am sleeping on their floor. Keep the money coming in, pay the bills, think of what sin they will place on you if she is left to pay the rent alone.