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It's sad- eyes,
goodbye, yestarday moments I remember,
it's the bleak street, weak- kneed portings I recall.
It's the misteries mits
the hazier days
the brighter sun
and the easier lays
there's all the more reason for laughing and crying
when you're younger and life isn't too hard at all.
It's the fantastic
drowse of the afternoon sundays
the bored you to rages of tears
the unending pleadings, to waste all your good times
in thoughts of your middle aged years
it's a vertical hold, all the things that you're told
for the everyday hero it all turn to zero
and there's all the more reason for living or dying
when you're young and your trubles are all very small.
Out here on the street
we'd gather and meet
and scuff up the sidewalk with endlessly restless feet
half of the time
we'd broaden our minds
more in the poolhall than we did in schoolhall
with the downtown chewing- gum bums
watching the nightlife, the lights and the fun.
Never wanted to be the boy next door,
always thought I'd be something more,
but it ain't easy for a downtown boy,
it ain't easy at all,
thinkin' it right, doin' it wrong
it easier from an armchhair,
waves of alternatives wash at my sleepiness,
have my eggs pached for breakfast I guess
