He likes to have the morning paper’s crossword solvedWords go upwords come downfonnrardsbackwardstwisted ’round.He grabs a pile of letters from a small suitcaseDisappears into an officeit’s another working day.And his thoughts are full of strangerscorridors of naked lights.And his mind once full of reasonNow there’s more than meets the eye.Now a stranger’s face he carries with him.He likes a bit of reading on the subway homeA distant radio’s whistling tunes that nobody knows.At home a house awaits himhe unlocks the doorThinking: once there was a sea herebut there never was a door.And his thoughts are full of strangersand his eyes too numb to see.And nothing that he knows ofand nowhere where he’s beenWon’t ever quite like this.And his thoughts are full of strangersCorridors of naked lights. . . .And at heart he’s full of strangersDodging on his train of thought.
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