A city freeze, get on your knees, pray for warmth and green paper. A city drought, you're down and out, see your trousers don't taper. Saddle up, kick your feet, ride the range of a London street. Travel to a local plane, turn around and come back again. And at the chime of the city clock, put up your road block, hang on to your crown. For a stone in a tin can is wealth to the city man who leaves his armor down. Stay indoors beneath the floors, talk with neighbors only. The games you play make people say you're either weird or lonely. A city star won't shine too far on account of the way you are and the beads around your face make you sure to fit back in place. And at the beat of the city drum, see how your friends come in twos or threes or more. For the sound of a busy place is fine for a pretty face who knows what a face is for. The city clown will soon fall down without a face to hide in and he will if he won't choose the one he may confide in. Sonny boy with smokes for sale went to ground with a face so pale and never heard about the change, showed his hand and fell out of range. In the light of a city square, find out the face that's fair, keep it by your side. When the light of the city falls, you fly to the city walls, take off with your bride. But at the chime of a city clock, put up your road block, hang on to your crown For a stone in a tin can is wealth to the city man who leaves his armor down.