Three weeks and counting ‘till he's on his way to 
France
Not a dime in his pocket but a ticket in his hand
He's a cynical bastard but there's hope in his eyes
It's been a long time coming
It's been a long time running from his insides

He tries hard to songwrite his way out of bed
But nothing tastes and clever as it sounded in his head
He wants to get his teeth wet and sink his feet in
He should have billions of dollars 
‘Cause every ass hole's put two cents in

But he writes the songs yeah
He can say what he wants yeah
He can be who he wants to
And they say he's wrong
But they keep tagging along
Yeah they can leave if they want to
And his way will never meet yours
He's got the world his back
And watch him take it
On all fours

Nine out of ten mother fuckers agree
That his fucking foul language
Is a fucking travesty
But mother fucking fuck is just another fucking word
The idea a word is dirty is too in-fucking-absurd

But he writes the songs yeah
He can be who he wants to
And they say he's wrong
But they keep tagging along
Yeah they can leave if they want to
And his way will never meet yours
He's got the world his back
And watch him take it
On all fours

And this world will soon be the death of him
And his voice will fade away
And his jeans will be all that's left of him
And they'll wonder if he was okay
And the alchys will say it was drinking
And the preacher will say it was sin
And his mother will say he was thinking
Only of himself again
And the gays will say it was straight people
And the straights will say it was AIDS
And he'll be in line at the gate
People still standing in his way
In his way

Yeah he writes the songs 
And he can say what he wants yeah
He can be who he wants to
And they say he's wrong
But they keep tagging along
Yeah they can leave if they want to
And his way will never meet yours
He's got the world his back
And watch him take it
On all fours