On The Streets I Ran
Words by Morrissey, Music by Jesse Tobias

Oooh, 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.
Oooh, 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 still-born, the new-born,
the infirm - take anyone
take people from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
- just spare me."

More Information Forthcoming