From the recording The Paint Splats

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Lyrics

Look at the sad man, puddles around where he stands
The flames that once burnt high are dying, too
Will he make it tomorrow, if he stops to beg and borrow
All the dreams that he shared with his son and the moon?

He cannot promise anything, but show him where to sign
The wet socks in his shoes, his cigarettes won’t make it
These streets are singing the blues, his flannel can’t take it
He doesn’t know any other way, but if he got to choose
He’d make the deal

Lays on the benches in this city of witches
His sheets are covered with the morning news
These streets all look the same, though he doesn’t even know his name
All he knows is this living room

He cannot promise anything to the man in the three-piece suit
What’s he got to lose that he hasn’t already?
Tired of being blue, his mobile home’s unsteady
He doesn’t have anyone to blame, unless you think of who
Took him away

Look at the sad man, puddles around where he stands
The flames that once burnt high are dying, too
Will he make it tomorrow, if he stops to beg and borrow
All the dreams that he shared with his son and the moon?

He cannot promise anything, but show him where to sign
The wet socks in his shoes, his cigarettes won’t make it
These streets are singing the blues, his flannel can’t take it
He doesn’t know any other way, so what's he got to lose
Should he make the deal
He will make the deal