Faces cracked for reason beyond recognition.
His space is at the Palace.
He sleeps for twenty five cents.
Now he's wiping headlights, windshields with an old rag.
It ain't nine to five.
Down and dirty, he's an old tramp.
He poses like a dead man.
The night train passes by.
Money's not the answer for princes and dancers.
He's standing under street lights.
He's thinking of his old life.
He lost his pretty young wife.
The corner is his big plan.
His brunch with Jim and jitters.
Boston blue laws ain't for shitters.
And newsprint is for cheaters.
Cement mattress for believers.
Now he's shooting power curves.
His buddies think he's got some nerve.
Missus Face had other lovers.
Her arms smothered other numbers.
He freezes.
Christmas season, all Saints protect him.
His face is cracked for reason beyond recognition.