The New York City winter comes in cold grey sheets of steel
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The numbness in his hands and feet is all that he can feel
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Alcohol and sterno turns a doorway to a bed
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And the ghost of who he might have been lives on inside his head
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In a canyon made of brownstone on a sidewalk icy black
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He wanders nearly barefoot with his righteousness in tact
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A man of many mansions in a cardboard box replete
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He lies sleeping with an angel while his heart pretends to beat
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The wind blows down on Lonely Street like an ice pick through the air
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Midst the Sunday times and coffee grinds and wino's in Times Square
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Five flights up on Easy Street you know she's safe and warm
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Way down low neath a foot of snow he's riding out the storm
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I offered him my winter coat politely he refused
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Like an educated man he spoke with words I seldom use
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He said I don't need pity for these choices are my own
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He bowed his head just slightly and quietly moved along
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Its not like he's a victim of the homeless life he stalks
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Nor helpless to get back across the fine line that he walks
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Riding out the storm means yesterday's already spent
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Tomorrow don't mean nothing it won't even make a dent
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Ridin' Out The Storm
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| Rodney Crowell |
