When dusk stretches the shadows
And the streetlights are shaking 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 and he stares at his feet
Wearing cardboard that reads like an order
That the earth must inherit the meek
How should I scold?
One who turns my scrap metal to gold
Just a sheep who’s abandoned the fold
So allergic to what he’s been told
The man with no hands left to hold
When dawn turns frost into dewdrops
And the moon bids an Irish goodbye
When the daylight descends from the treetops
And the mockingbird takes to the sky
There’s a rich man who stands on the hill side
Gazing down at the kingdom he’s built
He can say that his life’s been a thrill ride
Stained by inescapable guilt
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
When dusk stretches the shadows
And the streetlights are shaking 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 can’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
So allergic to what he’s been told
The man with no… How should I scold?
One who turns my scrap metal to gold
Just a sheep who’s abandoned the fold
So allergic to what he’s been told
The man with no hands left to hold
---
Lyrics submitted by Jon Paramore.