All alone on Douglas Avenue,
He's a torn and weathered scene,
His back against the wind,
that howls with a mighty scream,
His eyes are cold and lonely;
his hand's a weathered tan,
like a turning, tossing, tumbleweed,
he's a drifting homeless man.
Cardboard for a pillow,
the sidewalk for his bed,
He'll never have great riches;
from the place he lays his head,
Just another dream,
with nothing in it new,
as the morning brings him
Back again to Douglas Avenue.
A place with many window,
with reflections late at night,
Showing to the drifter,
it's too late to make it right,
A place of stone and concrete,
that has worn many a shoe,
off the feet of lonely drifters,
down Douglas Avenue.
Cardboard for his pillow,
lain on the sidewalk for his bed,
He knows his days are numbered,
there's no doubt he'll soon be dead,
It's been a long time coming,
but his passage has come through,
And late tonight he'll slip away,
from Douglas Avenue.
A place with many window,
with reflections late at night,
Showing to the drifter,
it's too late to make it right,
A place of stone and concrete,
that has worn many a shoe,
Off the feet of lonely drifters,
down Douglas Avenue.
Just another lonely drifter down Douglas Avenue.