The Night
Where does the night go to cry in New York City
Whose finger print is that upon the moon
Who kisses the stars and shows them pity
To the forever distant tune
Whose selling souls in the land of plenty
Backing out on promises they've made
Buying the beggar off with no more than pennies
While spitting on the unmarked graves
Who gives a voice to the silence
Where does memory turn when it forgets
When the strong ones fall who picks up the pieces
Where do the dying place their bets
If the fool reaches for the hand of wisdom
At that moment does he cease to be a fool
If the night could hear, would it even listen
And would it stop crying if it knew
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