| He was feeling invulnerable
|
| That was foolish but wonderful
|
| But of course the first one was always free
|
| He’s got one wrist in heaven, one ankle in hell
|
| Somebody pushed or he just fell
|
| He’s riding the subway watching the lights play
|
| Red yellow green he’s always somewhere in between
|
| The station he wants, the station he needs
|
| And the station where the chickenhawks come to feed
|
| Since the worm turned he’s learned
|
| This apple’s a blood-filled tear
|
| And he falls down laughing, he falls down laughing
|
| He falls down and he disappears
|
| First he tried to be pure now he just wants a cure
|
| He’s wasted, his skin’s sore, he’s flat-out poor
|
| When you live in doubt that’s when your luck runs out
|
| He’s on the roof alone, outside the zone
|
| Now he’s on the street again when he calls him then
|
| Billy just cannot resist
|
| Now he’s an orphan sleeping with the coffins
|
| Just like Oliver Twist
|
| Well since the worm turned. |
| .
|
| Billy’s tired of the lies, he’s turning every fire
|
| Looking for his own past
|
| He’s limping in the water searching for the quarter
|
| Inch of clarity
|
| His future is raining blood like stars
|
| He’s fallen so far behind
|
| He might as well be blind
|
| Watching late-night film noir inside of stolen cars
|
| His tongue stuck frozen to the monkey bars
|
| His ladder lost its rungs, Billy speaks in tongues
|
| Every time he’s in the clear his past looks back and sneers
|
| But since the worm turned. |
| . |