| Ever they come by the hundreds
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| Out of their safety they crawl
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| To stumble the streets of a hungy
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| Beast that it is never full
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| And no one can ever claim
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| That it ain’t no fun stepping into this dame
|
| And smelling the lights of the glittering gutter
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| They don’t know that these neon signs
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| Have guided many through better times
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| Always a fortune for the ones without hope
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| They used to fly high but now they lie on the floor
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| Still they call it the sinful mile
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| She’s a whore, and a lady, with a big heart inside
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| But for the small town voyeur she’s just the glittering gutter
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| Luck is a lady with a mean green smile
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| But the lady’s a bitch when you’ve known her a while
|
| And so through her veins they’re stumbling
|
| The guts have died
|
| The skin is crumbling
|
| Still she’s smiling her cancerous smile
|
| Her teath falling out
|
| A carcass alive
|
| Yet someone might recognise
|
| It’s reflecting the faces of the people inside
|
| Through the empty eyes of the glittering gutter
|
| Come on
|
| Come on
|
| Come on
|
| Come on |