 I was born on a Sunday, with blood on my hands
in a room full of phonographs and old electric fans
and I slept in a graveyard for bicycles and cars
and I dreamed of distant scenery, but I never strayed too far
Because I do what they ask me
I never run my mouth
and by the time they turn against me
I'll have them figured out
And I learned to lie
By watching you turn to your enemies
And the apple you've got in your eye
Has become a stain you don't want
So I left the city as soon as I could walk
But the buildings loomed like sentinels; it wasn't what I thought
So I slept in your bathtub, while you put your make-up on
And I daydreamed about your lungs 'til your cigarettes were gone
Now I roam because I have to
I'm never welcome long
And thought this road leads to disaster
I've always got my songs
And I learned to laugh
By watching you burn all your photographs
And you're right that the good things won't last
But these wars are never won by our twiddling thumbs
Well, I did what they asked me: I never ran my mouth
And by the time they turned against me, I had them figured out
And now I roam because I have to: I'm never welcome long
And though this road leads to disaster, I've always got my songs
And I learned to die
By watching you choke on your misery
And if the apple is torn from my eye
I won't be alone, because I'm going home
|
Switch to Russian 