Brooklyn boy, born and raised

Chopping lines, hey hey

It's my birthday

It's a toy I torch to tarpit flames

A lockjaw night, hey hey

It's my birthday



And your dead end friends

Make your stomach shake

And your hissing head

Barrels down that blackened lane

Alone at last to figure how you got this way



Charcoal clouds spot and spray

They kill the sun, hey hey

Hear its back break

So I can never tell night from day

Or right from wrong, hey hey

Hear my head ache



And your silver tounge

Masks your hungry hate

While your haggard heart

Whispers through its cracking cage,

"You still can change; you have to know

You still can change."



I know, I know - for now, I want to be this way.

This was a choice; this was never a mistake.