Ben Rogers - The Bums of Easy Street | Текст песни

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• Ben Rogers
• The Bums of Easy Street

from Lost Stories: Volume One, released 03 January 2013
More restless than the wind
We ramble and we roam
Squat cardboard and cold hard benches, boys
Are all we have left to call home
Black Thursday come in ‘29
I’s left with nothing but the dirt ‘neath my boots
And the curfew blows and cues the men in blue
And if you’re sleeping in the headlines, you’re just yesterdays’ news
Gonna have to learn to sleep standing on your feet
When you’re living with the bums of easy street

Old man sitting on the corner
Singin’ Johnny’s Gone for Soldier
Lost his leg in the First World War, boys
Lost his mind not long after it was over
And he shivers like he’s firing a machine gun
As he strums his last guitar string
Why are those who die for freedom honoured and glorified
While those guilty of surviving,
They don’t seem to mean a thing?
And as the empty marquee shines
Like a beggar’s broken teeth
He’s singing about the bums of easy street

The poet felt more like a prophet
Who spoke of a saviour that never came
He just wasted away
Slinging ink on a page
Tracing the shadows of the brightest days
And he went down to the railroad tracks
And on the hook that holds that mail bags that are sent
He tied a slipknot in the ribbon of his typewriter
And put it ‘round his neck
And placed a letter in a bag with no address
And it said, “I’m an open book
But there’s no words on the sheets
I’m tired of living with the bums of easy street”

The sailor sits in listless agony
With a tumbler of whiskey in his hand
And he pours out the rest of the bottle
Into a broken hour glass
See, he once was the captain of a mighty ship
‘Til he lost her at the battle of Zebrugge
Now he catches the tears that roll down his cheeks
With the tip of his tongue
And the taste reminds him of the salty sea
They say the captain goes down with his ship
And it’s very plain to see
For he’s living with the bums of easy street

Gypsy boy rides past on a 3-speed
With tarot cards snapping in his spokes
He says, “I’ll read your palm for no charge at all
If you could spare a couple of smokes”
I say, “It seems every time you need a cigarette
Everyone else is always on their last one”
So I take a of nicotine and I twist us both a dream
And say, “Here you go, my son
You can read my palm if you like
But don’t tell me what you see
I know I’ll always be a bum of easy street”

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