ON THE STREETS I RAN
(Morrissey/Tobias)

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.

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 you 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

O 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 still-born, the new-born
 the infirm – take anyone 
 take people from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania 
 – just spare me”