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 infirmed, 

Take anyone

Take people from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Just spare me!"