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