Dreaming in hell's kitchen by The Prodigals
Of passion, love, and bravery
A brown bag lunch, and a mug of tea,
Through gates of horn and ivory,
Weâ€™re dreaming in Hellâ€™s Kitchen.
A pugnacious politician in his armor-plated suit
Propitiates the wealthy while he fiddles with his flute
Heâ€™s crusader, Alexander, and Napolean to boot
Heâ€™s seeking fresh objectives on the borders of the Kitchen
So thereâ€™s this one and thereâ€™s that one,
Gracie Mansion & the â€˜Street,
Denouncing some poor devil who has nothing left to eat,
And heâ€™s not allowed to sleep here so heâ€™d best stay on his feet
For we care so much about him that weâ€™ll kick him from the Kitchen.
Thereâ€™s many on the breadline who never tried to fight
And thereâ€™s many that have earned their bread
By working day and night
But with all their sweat and labor was there chance that saw them right
While a hazard of the dice left the others by the kitchen?
He stinks and heâ€™s a drunkard, that bum we just passed by
And I think but for the grace of God that likewise there go I
And the buck inside his cup is less compassion for a sigh
Than libation when Iâ€™m dreaming in Hellâ€™s Kitchen.