Brass Man

He's standing shiny, suit cut and pressed.
Small change dancing in his pockets.
He's always motivated.
Feel a passion linger, ready to erupt.
His passion's not for money, just a chance to fire it up.
And he'll cry out his sorrows again.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
When a brass man speaks with a bird.
His fingers fasten the sound, his heart strips you bare.
The night may be cold and clumsy, but he makes the evening sweet.
And he'll carry a tune that will leave you drowning.
Into his lips melts life and all your surroundings.
And he'll cry out the sorrow like you've never heard.
The glass man mistakes you for the word.
Ghostly corners on a night or two.
He'll drink up musty barroom when he's got a job to do.
Now he's been offered diamonds, minties, the shiny gold, and he'll never touch
that silver because he knows what's in his soul.
And he'll cry out for sorrow like you've never heard.
That brass man sticks with the herd.