A cold winter brawl
The fog masquerades these sins
It's a beautiful thing
Full of eyes set alight
A thousand all-seeing rings
On a summer marquee
There's art on the street
Moves me in the strangest of ways
Tired rope descends
Where the Kilda Lane lays

On Brunswick Street
That's where the deadbeats meet
On Brunswick Street
That's where the deadbeats meet
It's Brunswick Street
That's where the cool beats sleep

Blind in the sun
But I hear you run with an
Old worn vinyl in your hands
Though I should have known
As we knew you would go
Columns and rows
I hear the prose
Of a lost man
I believe he's playing guitar
He speaks with hoarse experience
Like he knows what we are

On Brunswick Street
That's where the deadbeats meet
On Brunswick Street
That's where the cool beats sleep
That's Brunswick Street
Where all the paupers weep
On Brunswick Street
That's where the deadbeats meet
On Brunswick Street
Where all the paupers weep
That's Brunswick Street
That's where the cool beats sleep

This is a mystery
This is a mystery
You wanted change
All you got was a dent
In your identity
And your shellac top
Summers on Brunswick
That's where the deadbeats meet

[Modified "Dear Lincoln" coda]