Night shadows of a passerby, Men in expensive tailored to the red suits, Italian shoes that echo my mind. Beautiful women on their arms, Satisfied with the one. Sultry music from the back alley pub, Drinks lined up in shots, Cheers and jeers for the dancer, Tips with hopes of forget-me-nots. My soul calls me home, At the lonely wail of the saxophone. Winter wind blows past me, As I scrunch up my duster and duck my head deeper under my hat. Invisible to the night shadows, Of passerby.
