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Texty písní Morrisey Ringleader Of The Tormentors On The Streets I Ran

On The Streets I Ran

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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!"
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