well I was born on a Sunday with blood on my hands   in a room full of photographs and old electric fans   and I slept in a graveyard for bicycles and cars   and I dreamed of distant scenery but never strayed too far      cause I do what they ask me   I never run my mouth   and by the time you turn against me   I'll have you 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 it      so I left for 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 makeup on   and I daydreamed about your lungs til your cigarettes were gone      now I wrote cause I have to   I'm never welcome home   though 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 stuff 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 wrote cause I have to   I'm never welcome home   and though this road leads to disaster   I've always got my songs      I learned to die   by watching you choke on your misery   and if the apple is torn from my eye   well I won't be alone cause I'm going home