In England UK, a Yank is never free. The trucks are all too small if you can drive at all. The left’s gone right and right's gone wrong. It’ll turn you round until you don’t know what side you're on.
I can’t remember the last time I drank under the stars and passed out by an open fire...woke up rough as a tire in the arms of a redneck beauty, with my dog licking my face and a bit of the dog that bit me.
I couldn’t wait to leave it all behind. Now I miss those nights of driving slow through town, bouncing off the walls and back with you again. Thinking now, I wonder what we might have been.
When your daily bread’s begun to dull your knife, and you ain’t got enough whiskey to cover your ice: you’ve got to get out now, you’ve got to run for your life. You’ve got to get’er done because it’s do or die.
I wanna get me on a train and get me far from here, but the UK trains don’t take you nowhere, but the rain and the sea. The empty old sea.
GRACE OF GOD
Standing in line for throwaway food for a throwaway man. He shows me his teeth, or should I say, the want of them? (His girl was burned in the floor above. He left her to die in the fire when push came to shove.)
Waiting for food that no one wanted yesterday. It’s all a waste, so you might as well give it all away. They say, ‘God bless’, put a bag in your hand of bent canned goods and bread like sand.
The man was wrong: You can get lunch for free if you’re willing to trade your pride and stand in the street. There but for the grace of God goes me.
Every curb is a cliff by the abyss when I feel like this, and I’m just a home away rom homelessness. I look into their eyes and see there but for the grace of God goes me.
Last night I saw the doctor. He says he’s feeling better. He’s still got the bruises all around his lips. He says, ‘Never trust a man with the feminine hips...but he gives me what I want now, and we’re a lockdown.’
No one goes out no more. The bands and strippers have got nothing to show. The brokenhearted lovers are all calling it quits. They cry, ‘Never love a girl with the mannequin tits... but she gives me what I want now, and we’re a lockdown.’
Nobody gives a sh*t if I stay or if I quit, but you’ve got a smile that can make me feel better. Give me a kiss and I’ll love you forever. Give me what I want now. We’re a lockdown.
CAN’T TRUST DADDY
You can’t trust daddy after five on Fridays, and Mommy just tells you to watch what you say. You’d think when Daddy starts singing everything would be okay, but then daddy starts swinging so get out of the way.
(Mommy raised eight kids, whiskey-bred, Irish Catholic.)
The kids all sleep under their beds. They make dummies with pillows for their heads. Cause he comes in when you’re sleeping, and that’s when you’re really afraid, cause then daddy starts swinging - you can’t get out of the way.
(Daddy died in the drink. He took us all down when he sank.)
I can’t trust myself not to do the same. Every time I take a drink I’m playing a game. When I’m singing, I’m screaming, and I start to feel the rage, and after the show just get out of the way.
HIT THE TOP
When you’re falling down and you need something to hold onto, I’ll be waiting for you, at your table. Your friends won’t be around, and you know you need some rocket fuel, when you’ve got a mule kicking in your stable.
‘Cause you’ll hit the top before you see the bottom, but you’ll hit the bottom before you see the top!
Now you ain’t no philosopher, but you wonder what it’s all for when you know you won’t break ground 'til you’re buried. You’re like the shark that never drowns because you’re always moving on, and everything you’ll ever have will be temporary.
She’s the kind you’d love. He’s not the kind you’d like, but his problem is he never runs from a fight. So the cops took him last month and they stuck him with the knife. Until his judgement day we’re on borrowed time.
She sees him every Sunday just to walk the line. Every other day his little girl his mine. While he’s locked away we’re free to do what we like. Until his judgement day we’re on borrowed time.
Hear the ticking of a clock as I hold her through the night, haunted by the ghost of a man who hasn’t died. If we have done wrong, we will pay the price. Until his judgment day we’re on borrowed time.
Hey there, Mr. Judge, won’t you do what’s right? Won’t you put him away and make that little girl my wife? You know the things we do for love, living with our lies. Until his judgement day we’re on borrowed time.
Why when someone dies they say they’re in a better place? Have we been cast down, waiting to return to grace? Will we get out of hell when we die? Until his judgment day we’re on borrowed time.
HUM OF THE HIDDEN MACHINE
Here’s something I’ll never forget no matter how many years: my girl waiting in a line to get sucked through the clinic gears. They don’t give you any big cigars, but they’ve got People magazines so you don’t have to listen to the hum of the hidden machine making it die.
As they took her hand away I could see she was trying to be brave. She even tried to smile. She even tried to wave. What they took away from me was more than they put in a shallow grave. It was what a hundred nights of heartache couldn’t save from making it die.
I’m ashamed to admit I even wondered how long it’d be until they finished sucking out her insides so I could get me a decent meal. When they let her back outside there was nothing in her eyes, and I knew that they had finished the job that had begun with our first lies of making it die.