It’s an endless struggle, but I think that I’ve been in it too long. Every step is trouble, thoughts are muddled, but nothing is wrong. There’s a mess in my bed. I didn’t make it, but now it’s mine. If you want to help me clean it, I don’t need it, no thanks, that’s fine. Oh, the bitterness again. No, you just can’t ever win.
Now it’s not so dirty––the Third Avenue El train’s gone. All the kids are happy hailing taxis in a desolate throng. It’s a healthy feeling, but you’re never gonna feel at home. Should have moved to California when you could have, should have sold your soul. Oh, that sermon on your skin. Oh, the ubiquity of sin.
Now I want to vanish but I’ll manage if I just get home. In my thoughts I’m waiting at a door freezing to the bone. Blessed are the simple, always hungry, living in a crowd. Damned are the ones always looking for a new way out. Desolate and empty is the sea separating you from me.