On All Fours

three weeks and counting 'til he's on his way to france

not a dime in his pocket, but a ticket in his hand

he's a cynical bastard, but there's hope in his eyes

it's been a long time comin', spent a long time runnin' from his insides

he tries hard to songwrite his way out of bed

but nothing tastes as clever as it sounded in his head

he wants to get his teeth wet and sink his feet in

he should have billions of dollars, cuz every asshole's put two cents in

chorus

but he writes the songs and he can say what he wants, yeah, he can be who he wants to

and they say he's wrong, but they keep tagging along, yeah, they can leave if they want to

and his way will never meet yours

he's got the world on his back and watch him take it on all fours

9 out of 10 motherfuckers agree

that his fucking foul language is a fucking travesty

but motherfucking fuck is just another fucking word

the idea a word is dirty is to him fucking absurd

chorus

bridge

and this world will soon be the death of him

and his voice will fade away

and his jeans will be all that's left of him

and they'll wonder if he was okay

and the alkies'll say it was drinkin'

and the preacher'll say it was sin

and his mother'll say he was thinkin'

only of himself again

and the gays they will say it was straight people

and the straights will said it was AIDS

and he'll be in line at the gate

people still standing in his way, in his way

chorus