(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.