(chorus:)

Of passion, love, and bravery 

A brown bag lunch, and a mug of tea, 

Through gates of horn and ivory, 

We're dreaming in Hell's Kitchen. 



A pugnacious politician in his armor-plated suit 

Propitiates the wealthy while he fiddles with his flute 

He's crusader, Alexander, and Napolean to boot 

He's seeking fresh objectives on the borders of the Kitchen 

So there's this one and there's that one,

Gracie Mansion & the ‘Street, 

Denouncing some poor devil who has nothing left to eat, 

And he's not allowed to sleep here so he'd best stay on his feet 

For we care so much about him that we'll kick him from the Kitchen. 



There's many on the breadline who never tried to fight 

And there's many that have earned their bread

by working day and night 

But with all their sweat and labor was there chance that saw them right 

While a hazard of the dice left the others by the kitchen? 

He stinks and he's a drunkard, that bum we just passed by 

And I think but for the grace of God that likewise there go I 

And the buck inside his cup is less compassion for a sigh 

Than libation when I'm dreaming in Hell's Kitchen.