Oh a working-class face glares back
At me from the glass and lurches
"Oh forgive me, on the streets I ran
Turned sickness into popular song"
Streets of wet-black holes
On roads you can never know
You never have them but they always have you
Till the day that you croak
It´s no joke
Oh a working-class face glares back
At me from the glass and lurches
"Oh forgive me on the streets I ran
Turned sickness into unpopular song"
And all these streets can do
Is claim to know the real you
And warn: "if you don´t leave, you will kill or be killed"
Which isn´t very nice
Here, everybody´s friendly
But nobody´s friends
Oh dear God, when will I be where I should be?
And when the palmist said:
"One Thursday you will be dead"
I said: "No, not me, this cannot be
Dear God, take him, take them, take anyone
The stillborn
The newborn
The infirm
Take anyone
Take people from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Just spare me!"