“I need some change.
Nah, I’m not farming anymore. Lookin’ for a guy named Noah.”
When you’re early, you hide behind garbage cans —
and the stench doesn’t capture the feeling of the city.
Your mind is dried up, and you count everyone’s steps.
But it’s the not so damn bad, the not so damn bad.
A cop presides over the cars and sounds
and windblown voices.
The barkeep don’t notice you’re filthy —
a morning beer, and you don’t either;
’cause you really haven’t slept in days,
watching the buildings rise and fall.
But it’s the not so damn bad, the not so damn bad …
but it’s the not so damn bad, the not so damn bad.
It’s the not so damn bad, the not so damn bad …
but it’s the not so damn bad, the not so damn bad …
but it’s the not so damn bad, the not so damn bad …
yeah, it’s the not so damn bad, the not so damn bad.
“Thanks a lot, man” …