On The Street's I Ran

Ooh, a working-class face glares back At me from the glass and lurches, oh 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 always 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, oh 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" --- On the Street's I Ran - Morrissey