Run from the corner catchers faire
There’s a cold guy, sly: he’s hunting on the street
An empty soul- from your pockets will he tear

The wise stay away; they know the where
The cold one-run; he grasps for your feet
Run from the corner catchers faire

Broken toys, holy ploys, claw of a bear
His words take, shake; who can beat
An empty soul-from your pockets will he tear

Cat call, draws to bright, sweet, real rare
Inspectors, collectors; looking for a piece of meat
Run from the corner catchers faire

Deep breaths, quick feet, take in that heavy air
Duck, jump, hide; take his seat
An empty soul-from your pockets will he tear

Now take a bow, those thieves don’t care
Don’t sell out, shout; what a feat
Run from the corner catchers faire
An empty soul-from your pockets will he tear