Millionaires and paupers walk the hungry street
Rich and poor companions of the restless feet.
Strangers in a foreign land
Strike a match with a trembling hand
Learned too much to ever understand.
But nobody's buying flowers from the flower lady.
Poets agonize, they cannot find the words.
The stone stares at the sculptor, asks are you absurd?
The painter paints his brushes black, through the canvas runs a crack
The portrait of the pain never answers back.
But nobody's buying flowers from the flower lady.
But nobody's buying flowers from the flower lady.
Feeble aged people almost to their knees
Complain about the present using memories.
Never found their pot of gold, wrinkled hands pound weary holes.
Each line screams out you're old, you're old, you're old.
But nobody's buying flowers from the flower lady.
And the flower lady hobbles home without a sale.
Tattered shreds of petals leave a fading trail.
Not a pause to hold a rose, even she no longer knows.
The lamp goes out, the evening now is closed.
But nobody's buying flowers from the flower lady.
