Sick and Sore

You get up,

sick and sore,

not sure what day it is, or where you are.

Go out, cause that's what you do.

You figure, better go through the motions,

before they go through you.

The kids come out,

and the cops can't cope,

the streets are overflowing with petty promises and misplaced hope.

You're scared,

so you flee

to the safety and the comfort of familiar company.

Everybody knows as soon as you walk in,

what's your game,

and how you win.

So you hide,

in this crowd.

Where everybody's drinking to themselves,

and thinking out loud.

They're cold and cruel,

crass and corrupt,

more arrogant than interesting,

and so full of themselves,

they're spitting up.

They finish every sentence you begin.

You say it's just a game,

they say you always win.

They all want to know,

hey, where you been.

You been right there,

but they don't care,

they just ask they don't listen.

Do you dream sometimes,

of going far away,

where no one knows your name.

Where people don't pretend,

disappoint, lie or betray,

and know each mistake you've made.

But that place don't exist,

except in wishes that you've made,

it's just a sad charade,

you're afraid to be afraid, to be afraid.

In this smoke and this filth,

you barely can breathe,

and you're wasting your breathe

coughing up reasons to leave,

'til they run you out,

then you spin out and speed,

but all theses corners that you're cutting,

are starting to bleed.

And they'll bleed you 'til you're just bone and skin,

that's theit game,

and you can't win.

Well you ain't ever won a goddamn thing.

It's a game, you can't win.

You may not lose, but you never win.

You never win.