Oooh
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 could never know
You never have them
But they always have you
'Til the day that you croak
It's no joke
Oooh
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 what 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
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