Why can't I lay low? Why can't I say what I mean?
Why don't I stay home and get myself into some boring routine?
Why can't I calm down? Why is it always a fight?
I can't get unwound. Why do I throw myself into the night?
I'm on the outside. I don't fit into a groove.
Now, I ain't a bad guy, so tell me what am i trying to prove?
Why can't I cool out? Why don't I button my lip?
Why do I lash out? Why is it I always shoot from the hip?
I cruise from Houston to Canal Street, a misfit and a rebel.
I see the winos talking to themselves, and I can understand.
Why is it everytime I go out I always seem to get in trouble?
I guess I made an impression on somebody north of Hester and South of Grand.
And so, in my small way, I'm a big man on Mulberry Street.
I don't mean always, only at night when I'm light on my feet.
What else have I got that I'd be trying to hide?
Maybe a blind spot I haven't seen from the sensitive side?
But you know, in my own heart I'm a big man on Mulberry Street.
I play the whole part; I leave a big tip with every reciept.
I'm so romantic; I'm such a passionate man.
Sometimes I panic...what if nobody finds out who I am?
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