Oh it's midnight on the Bowery and your feet are soakin' wet And you've drank your last brass farthin' You'd sell your soul for a cigarette And the sounds from CBGBs are comfortin' to you Then you think of the green fields of Ireland And you feel 40 shades of blue Ah you're back on the drink since September And your head feels like a sieve And you know that you're goin' from bad to worse But you just don't give a shit And the hymns from the Sally Army sound heavenly and true Then you think of your friends and your family And you feel 40 shades of blue Ah you've got a great future behind you But you're goin' nowhere fast Just up and down the Bowery from Canal Street to old St. Marks And you wonder what she's up to now Did she really find somebody new Ah how the hell could she just walk out like that On your 40 shades of blue And you wonder how it came to this Was it always in the cards 'Cause workin' is for idiots And you loved the smell of bars And the letters that you sent back home Were full of all the things you'd done But they don't say you're down there on Bleecker Street With your hand out on the bum Now the dawn's comin' up on the Bowery And you're heartsick and soakin' wet With your tongue hangin' out for some Irish Rose You'd sell your soul for a cigarette And someday I'm gonna give up this drinkin' But then maybe someday I'll win the lottery too Then I'll go back home to old Wexford Town And paint her 40 shades off blue"