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?