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Standing in the city drinking rum
Engaged in conversation with a bum
Look at all the faces going different places
Another working day is done
Every place that you go
Everyone is working
They're trying to make it
And they're doing good work
Riding along in the country
Looking at the setting sun
But everybody else is dragging in the harvest
Another working day is done
Every place that you go
Everyone is working
They're trying to make it
And they're doing good work
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Outdoor open air becomes me
Pass that broken luck right by
The view from here is mighty clear
But the haze of dust is hanging high
And I can't see the mystery that
tricks me every night
It's a mistake and I know it
I'm half awake and all asleep
A minor set of shakes
Honest eyes don't last long
Just give me more than gravel to chew on
Despite the doors make sure I get through one
Let me loose from calling after ghosts
Who coast right by with couples in doubles
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the dust that is gathered on
the oak shelf is as high
as a foot
the window's white curtains
closing out the daylight
black as soot
this room
filled with gloom
needs a broom
to sweep it soon
I recognize
a wretched lamp and other things
past their prime
I found a rusted wristwatch
that was out of touch
with time
this room
needs to balloon
into a brighter mood
by the light of noon
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South of some borders and outside before me
Hot wind keeps blowing up dry dirty weeds
Coming up through my gut
I been standing too long
So be sure I won't be here come morning
I can't wait in this sun as it's sure to consume me
My spirit and sweat have been put to the test
I could swear that the wind smells just like your skin
But my mind such a mess it's in crutches
Lord don't fill me with facts to distract me
I know what I got
There's not much in the pot
Just find me when my time comes a calling
I've seen my grave and it's waiting
She got stuck up and stuck in ridiculous ruts
I watched her walk out on herself
With no particular place in her mind to go
I forgot that I could not trust her
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Words and music by Paul Simon
Fog's rollin' in off the East River bank
Like a shroud it covers Bleeker Street
Fills the alley where men sleep
Hides the shepard from the sheep
Voices leaking from a sad cafe
Smiling faces try to understand
I saw a shadow touch a shadows hand
On Bleeker Street
A poet reads his crooked rhyme
Holy, holy is his sacrement
Thirty dollars pays your rent
On Bleeker Street
I heard a church bell softly chime
In a melody sustaining
It's a long road to Caanan
On Bleeker Street
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16 |
There Goes The Neighborhood |
18 |
Hiedra Del Veneno - Demo |
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