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If you start here late, no one will know what you did |
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No, the streets are straight, it's the soul that's crooked |
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I've been treated fine, I've been treated elegantly |
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But I'm not one for bathing in the waters of plenty no |
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East is east and west is west |
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The Bowery is screaming while Delancey rests |
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Well, I'm south of skating, but I'm north of the cash |
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I could sure use the money but I'm ashamed to ask |
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The traffic has buried all of last night's rain |
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The words are all different but the accent is the same |
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The sun is white, the moon is gray |
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The river is black, blue and green |
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The young are young, the old are old |
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There are no shades of gray in between |
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There's at least ten different strains of smoke in the air |
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And my prints are on them all to prove I was there |
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I love the curses, but I'm not one for the trenches |
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Yes I do love the walking but I thank God for the benches |
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It's hard to tell where green begins and the city gray stops |
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I guess the trees all bought their armor at second hand shops |
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My second hand is working but the minute hand broke again |
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I know time will pass but I don't know when |
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The sun is white, the moon is gray |
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The river is black, blue and green |
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The young are young, and the old are old |
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There are no shades of gray in between |
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There are no shades of gray in between |
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I know the great ones have been here, but where I can't tell |
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There's dreams here a plenty, but they're being withheld |
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And I'm more impressed with the closed doors than the ones that are open |
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The whole place tells time by a tower clock that's broken |
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The pigeons are ravens and the gulls are vultures |
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And trash is art and cash is culture |
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The sun is white, the moon is gray |
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And the river is black, blue and green |
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The young are young, the old are old |
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There are no shades of gray in between |
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There are no shades of gray in between |
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No shades of gray in between |
