On the Streets I Ran

Oh 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 can never know You never have them but they always have you Till the day that you croak It's no joke Oh 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 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 infirm Take anyone Take people from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania Just spare me!"