Lyrics:

Fog's rollin' in off the East River bank,
Like a shroud it covers Bleeker Street,
Fills the alleys where men sleep,
Hides the shepherd from the sheep.

Voices leaking from a sad café,
Smiling faces trying to understand.
I saw a shadow touch a shadow's hand
On Bleeker Street.

The poet reads his crooked rhyme.
Holy, holy is his sacrament.
Thirty dollars pays your rent
On Bleeker Street.

I heard a church bell softly chime
In a melody sustainin'.
It's a long road to Canaan
On Bleeker Street.

Bleeker Street