I'm the kind of guy
Who never sits on an ugly truth
When the hard winds blow
And the fishing boats are moored
There's few gulls to be found

As breezes go this is a beauty
The combinations of grey's in the sky
The tumbling of trash cans is music to my ears
The slippery streets, a hazard to the unskilled
The lights in the windows become beacons

Lost are the die-hard umbrellas
Seeking shelter under the overpass
They always end up there through no fault of their own
To be in the company of a vagrant wishing for a drug or drink
Something to numb the sounds of the world's howls of transition