I get up in the morning , papers shield me from the cold,

My clothes are thin and shabby.

Just like me they’re worn and old. 

My home address is a street sign.

And I have only me to blame.

And every day that passes seems the same.

 

In a store front plate glass mirror

I’m the picture of despair.

Wet my fingers in a puddle and run them through my hair.

I want to make a slight improvement but the answer there is plain.

And every day that passes seems the same.

 

And every day that passes seems the same.

Each day just like the day before, a day without a name.

I could be the star attraction in the loser’s hall of fame.

And every day that passes seems the same.

 

Don McAdam