I came up on a Greyhound from the southland
past peach pit plantation plains
and I can still taste that sweetness in my mouth

don't think I'll be eating peaches again

Brought up on religion on a river

sandbar schooling is something else
and I can still smell that muddied water
cause it's in my hair and in my skin and in my clothes


When I put my feet down in the station
my soles stuck solid to the tile

and my eyes were tearing from the fumes in the Port
but there's nothing much left that makes me cry


But in the light on the evening
the sidewalks are teeming with the sound of the venders,
runners, I-can't-sleepers,

I can't sleep
can't sleep


I took my place among the ragged brigadiers
all the leather bound bar boys know my name
and the blue midnight masses milling in the street

sing sweeter than all the Sundays I've ever known

At night when the black khol bleeds dark bands beneath our eyes

and we watch our youth wash down the sink
Saint Mark and Patrick watch from lamp posts up above
and their tears fill the gutters from which we drink


But in the light on the evening
the sidewalks are teeming with the sound of the venders,

runners, I-can't-sleepers
And the cat calls keep calling
the night girls are stalling to the sack boys

wearing blankets in the heat
blankets in the heat


The phantom players place their bets down on the box
but the monty cards are always the same
the tourists gather round thinking they've got it made

don't no one know that no one wins that game

But sometimes when the pavement steams

and my skin could blister to the touch
I can still see wisteria curling in the green
and I tell myself I really dont miss it much


But in the light on the evening
the sidewalks are teeming with the sound of the venders,

runners, I-can't-sleepers
And the cat calls keep calling
the night girls are stalling to the sack boys

wearing blankets in the heat
Where all the heroes are black clad
and the smoke circled jet lagged

park their limos just inches from our feet.
Where all the sidewalks are ending,
the bowery's dead ending in the footprints

of Saint Mark in the Square
Saint Mark is walking in the Square
barefoot in the square

And I'm not leaving