Down in the dark dampened street,
Where thirty-fourth and second meet,
There's an old tattered cardboard box,
That smells like dirty workers socks.
And he hides inside, from the rain,
Covering his eyes from all of his pain,
And he holds a sign up to the crew,
Saying: "Will work for a bite of food."
His hair is a mess, he's missing teeth,
Ninety pounds soaking wet, hardly breathes;
People walk by, shoot a disgusted look his way,
They'd never think to stop and ask him about his day.
And there's tears lining his blue eyes,
Tied together with a broken smile, he sighs,
"Another hopeless day with nothing to eat,"
He sits down with his box on the dirty concrete.
And me and the boys, we know his morning glory,
We've stopped to talk, heard his forgotten story,
"I haven't always lived in a box," He sorrowfully cried,
But we'd never tell him that we knew he lied -
He never lived in New York City with a wife,
Nor was he a memorable actor for all of his life,
His Mom and Dad, they weren't mad for each other,
And he never threw himself at a bus, saving his brother.
But if there's one thing I know is true, it's his smile,
And the way he felt when he ran that hundred miles,
Telling us that story, tears clouding in my eyes,
I knew I'd remember this man and his shattered disguise.
Standing here today, with a smile I stare
To the concrete, now desolate and bare,
And people walk by, but they don't know,
He once sat there, with nowhere to go.
