Over there
|
In the cold
|
Stands the Hustler
|
His eyes are old
|
He has seen a million ugly scenes
|
Places where men droop with mould
|
The backrooms
|
Where soiled goods are sold
|
Seen with opened eyes since frail fifteen
|
He has found it hard at first
|
But on his brow there sits a curse
|
For when the young must suffer
|
At the hands of men
|
|
Memories of Christmas past
|
Were never there to ever last
|
Things as were can never
|
Be again
|
|
Over there
|
By the wall
|
Stands the Hustler
|
He's not very tall
|
He's trampled by the jaded by the sly
|
|
He's seen the darker side of men
|
First fascinated and then
|
He found his urge to laugh
|
An urge to cry
|
|
He'll find close friends
|
No friend at all
|
He feels so lonely, tired and small
|
How few are chosen from
|
The golden call
|
|
There's something in us all it seems
|
To crave adventure
|
Hunt for dreams
|
But corruption the seducer spoils our schemes
|
And surely as the snow will melt
|
The Hustler
|
Grabs his soul and heads for home
|
With lessons learnt under his belt
|
|
Over there
|
By the wall
|
Stands the Hustler
|
With the men of law
|
On either side to flank the sallow youth
|
But some of us will never learn
|
It takes the blow of fists to burn
|
How painfully we suffer for the truth
|
|
-----------------
|
The Hustler
|
| Marc Almond |
