I came to Philadelphia
With a rod in my hand
I sure am no saint
I am no righteous man
I don’t miss the cold
But I do miss the sand
It takes some adjusting
And I know that I can
And I tell you
I am no righteous man
They all like to treat me
Like a wanted man
They come from far and wide
Just to spit in my hand
I came in September
To run from the cold
The young, they tolerate it
But my body’s getting old
And I tell you
I am no righteous man
Cold, cold, cold
It’s cold in the snow
If I stay or I go
Nobody will know
Or care
There’s nobody there
To say, “Stay, please, please, please, please”
I came to Philadelphia
From up north, Newfoundland
My mother, she was a teacher
My dad a fisherman
I don’t miss the cold
But I do miss the sand
It'll take some adjusting
But I’m sure that I can