Buck 65

Buck 65 - Riverbed 3

There's people living in the neighboring barges

Guilty of assorted compliments and charges

Like the one eyed cyclist who never wears socks

He covers his mouth with his hand when he talks

His name is Rene, they say he is a communist

There is something about his demeanor that's ominous

Gord with his card tricks escaped from the row

His mouth is always in the shape of an O

His brother is locked up and he awaits his release

He talks about politics and hates the police

Linda doesn't have long to live probably

She's wiccan and used to read palms for a hobby

She came to visit one night and just sat there

And laughed the whole time, her clothes covered in cat hair

Aubrey wears two watches at once and a bow tie

He is missing a thumb and nobody knows why

He's not the best ventriloquist in the world, but he wants to be

He's an excellent dancer and smokes reefer constantly

Big, fat Nigel works as a florist

He's openly gay and looks like a tourist

He's very polite with a good sense of humor

He's heir to a fortune or at least that's the rumor

Washed up and wounded, we are the recycled

Earthy, thirsty, sleazy and seaworthy

At the foot of the trees the tramps drink and they day dream

They use the fountain to stay clean, they're not as bad as they may seem

Each day they reenact the ritual of abandon

They sit there and serenade people at random

As the thought of a job and a bedroom refrigerates

They drift on alcoholic wings in figure-eights

Wine and water, regarded as stupid weirdos

More wine and water, they feel like superheroes

One once was a boxer whose ego remains bandaged

He once took a beating that left him with brain damage

One plays a horn and was born with a wooden leg

He plays on some days cause he feels that he shouldn't beg

One worked in the factory before it closed down

He's fine if there's plenty of wine to go around

Sunken and drunken, frustrated and lonely

These people don't die, they evaporate slowly

No matter how desperate, no matter how lawless

They rely on the river for some kind of solace

It sings to the softly and lulls them to sleep heavily

It's soothing and every bit heavenly

Each morning before they get into the booze, as they say

They usually give me the news of the day

And if it were up to them to shout the decision

An aurora borealis and all men out of prison

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