It's been a long cold winter.
A biting wind from the West.
The light in the leaves
finds a desolate wall.

The workers, who sing the blues.
Do you stop to listen?

The sanitary worker,
the taxi driver.
The farmer's hands,
and industrial workers.

Neon promises mean nothing.
Sleeping by the river,
fending off the blues.
Sub-health and sub-city
Constant companions.

In a well rehearsed voice.
With a melancholy tone.
They sing.....

' Nobody knows the trouble I've seen'

And the weary blues  
echo inside their heads.
Over and over again.