There's people living in the neighboring barges   Guilty of assorted compliments and charges   Like the one eyed cyclist who never wears socks   He covers his mouth with his hand when he talks   His name is Rene, they say he is a communist   There is something about his demeanor that's ominous   Gord with his card tricks escaped from the row   His mouth is always in the shape of an O      His brother is locked up and he awaits his release   He talks about politics and hates the police   Linda doesn't have long to live probably   She's wiccan and used to read palms for a hobby   She came to visit one night and just sat there   And laughed the whole time, her clothes covered in cat hair   Aubrey wears two watches at once and a bow tie   He is missing a thumb and nobody knows why   He's not the best ventriloquist in the world, but he wants to be   He's an excellent dancer and smokes reefer constantly   Big, fat Nigel works as a florist   He's openly gay and looks like a tourist   He's very polite with a good sense of humor   He's heir to a fortune or at least that's the rumor   Washed up and wounded, we are the recycled   Earthy, thirsty, sleazy and seaworthy   At the foot of the trees the tramps drink and they day dream   They use the fountain to stay clean, they're not as bad as they may seem   Each day they reenact the ritual of abandon   They sit there and serenade people at random   As the thought of a job and a bedroom refrigerates   They drift on alcoholic wings in figure-eights   Wine and water, regarded as stupid weirdos   More wine and water, they feel like superheroes   One once was a boxer whose ego remains bandaged   He once took a beating that left him with brain damage   One plays a horn and was born with a wooden leg   He plays on some days cause he feels that he shouldn't beg   One worked in the factory before it closed down   He's fine if there's plenty of wine to go around   Sunken and drunken, frustrated and lonely   These people don't die, they evaporate slowly   No matter how desperate, no matter how lawless   They rely on the river for some kind of solace   It sings to the softly and lulls them to sleep heavily   It's soothing and every bit heavenly   Each morning before they get into the booze, as they say   They usually give me the news of the day   And if it were up to them to shout the decision   An aurora borealis and all men out of prison