Lirik Lagu It's Hard To Be A Saint In The City - Bruce Springsteen
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I had skin like leather and the diamond-hard look of a cobraI was born blue and weathered but I burst just like a supernovaI could walk like Brando right into the sunThen dance just like a CasanovaWith my blackjack and jacket and hair slicked sweetSilver star studs on my duds just like a Harley in heatWhen I strut down the street I could hear its heart beatThe sisters fell back and said, "Don’t that man look pretty."The cripple on the corner cried out, "Nickels for your pity."Them gasoline boys downtown sure talk grittyIt’s so hard to be a saint in the city
I was the king of the alley, mama, I could talk some trashI was the prince of the paupers crowned downtown at the beggar’s bashI was the pimp’s main prophet I kept everything coolJust a backstreet gambler with the luck to loseAnd when the heat came down it was left on the groundThe devil appeared like Jesus through the steam in the streetShowin’ me a hand I knew even the cops couldn’t beatI felt his hot breath on my neck as I dove into the heatIt’s so hard to be a saint when you’re just a boy out on the street
And the sages of the subway sit just like the living deadAs the tracks clack out the rhythm, their eyes fixed straight aheadThey ride the line of balance and hold on by just a threadBut it’s too hot in these tunnels you can get hit up by the heatYou get up to get out at your next stop but they push you back down in your seatYour heart starts beatin’ faster as you struggle to your feetThen you’re outa that hole and back up on the street
And them South Side sisters sure look prettyThe cripple on the corner cries out, "Nickels for your pity."And them downtown boys sure talk grittyIt’s so hard to be a saint in the city
I was the king of the alley, mama, I could talk some trashI was the prince of the paupers crowned downtown at the beggar’s bashI was the pimp’s main prophet I kept everything coolJust a backstreet gambler with the luck to loseAnd when the heat came down it was left on the groundThe devil appeared like Jesus through the steam in the streetShowin’ me a hand I knew even the cops couldn’t beatI felt his hot breath on my neck as I dove into the heatIt’s so hard to be a saint when you’re just a boy out on the street
And the sages of the subway sit just like the living deadAs the tracks clack out the rhythm, their eyes fixed straight aheadThey ride the line of balance and hold on by just a threadBut it’s too hot in these tunnels you can get hit up by the heatYou get up to get out at your next stop but they push you back down in your seatYour heart starts beatin’ faster as you struggle to your feetThen you’re outa that hole and back up on the street
And them South Side sisters sure look prettyThe cripple on the corner cries out, "Nickels for your pity."And them downtown boys sure talk grittyIt’s so hard to be a saint in the city
