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I had skin like leather and the diamond-hard look of a cobra |
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I was born blue and weathered but I burst just like a supernova |
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I could walk like Brando right into the sun |
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Then dance just like a Casanova |
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With my blackjack and jacket and hair slicked sweet |
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Silver star studs on my duds like a Harley in heat |
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When I strut down the street I could hear its heartbeat |
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The sisters fell back and said "Don't that man look pretty" |
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The cripple on the corner cried out "Nickels for your pity" |
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Them gasoline boys downtown sure talk gritty |
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It's so hard to be a saint in the city |
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I was the king of the alley, mama, I could talk some trash |
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I was the prince of the paupers crowned downtown at the beggar's bash |
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I was the pimp's main prophet I kept everything cool |
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Just a backstreet gambler with the luck to lose |
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And when the heat came down it was left on the ground |
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The devil appeared like Jesus through the steam in the street |
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Showin' me a hand I knew even the cops couldn't beat |
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I felt his hot breath on my neck as I dove into the heat |
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It's so hard to be a saint when you're just a boy out on the street |
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And the sages of the subway sit just like the living dead |
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As the tracks clack out the rhythm their eyes fixed straight ahead |
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They ride the line of balance and hold on by just a thread |
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But it's too hot in these tunnels you can get hit up by the heat |
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You get up to get out at your next stop but they push you back down in your seat |
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Your heart starts beatin' faster as you struggle to your feet |
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Then you're outa that hole and back up on the street |
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And them South Side sisters sure look pretty |
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The cripple on the corner cries out "Nickels for your pity" |
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And them downtown boys sure talk gritty |
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It's so hard to be a saint in the city |
