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