Ooh, a working-class face glares back
|
At me from the glass and lurches
|
Forgive me, on the street's I ran
|
Turned sickness into, popular song
|
|
Streets of wet black holes
|
On roads you can never know
|
You never have them
|
But, they alway's have you
|
'Till the day that you croak
|
(it's no joke)
|
|
Ooh, a working-class face glares back
|
At me from the glass and lurches
|
Forgive me, on the street's I ran
|
Turned sickness into unpopular song
|
|
And all these street's 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!"
|
|
-----------------
|
On The Streets I Ran
|
| Morrissey |
