When dusk stretches the shadows
And the streetlights are shaken from sleep
When the city steals light from the skyline
And the patrons are shown to their seats.
There's a wise man who stands on the corner
When you pass him he stares at his feet
Wearing cardboard that reads like an order
That the earth shall inherit the meek.
Ch. 1:
How should I scold
One who turns my scrap metal to gold
Just a sheep who's abandoned the fold
Allergic to what he's been told
The man with no hands left to hold.
V. 2:
When dawn turns frost into dewdrops
And the moon bids an Irish goodbye
When daylight descends from the treetops
And the mockingbird takes to the sky.
There's a rich man who stands on the hillside
Gazing down at the kingdom he's built
He can say that his life's been a thrill ride
Stained by inescapable guilt.
Ch. 2:
Why should he fold
Show his hand in a game he's controlled
Knowing everything bought can be sold
So addicted to what he's been told
The man with no hands left to hold.
V. 3:
When dusk stretches the shadows
And the streetlights are shaken from sleep
When the city steals light from the skyline
And the patrons are shown to their seats.
There's a young man who stands on the corner
With a song to convince him he's free
And I don't recognize the performer
For the man on the soapbox is me.
How should I scold
One who turns my scrap metal to gold
Just a sheep who's abandoned the fold
Allergic to what he's been told
The man with no hands left to hold.