Ooh, a working-class face glares back   At me from the glass and lurches, oh   Forgive me, on the street's 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      Ooh, a working-class face glares back   At me from the glass and lurches, oh   Forgive me, on the street's I ran   Turned sickness into unpopular song      And all these street's 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 infirmed, take anyone   Take people from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania   Just spare me"