You
gotta
be
crazy,
you
gotta
have
a
real
need.
You
gotta
sleep
on
your
toes,
and
when
you're
on
the
street,
You
gotta
be
able
to
pick
out
the
easy
meat
with
your
eyes
closed.
And
then
moving
in
silently,
down
wind
and
out
of
sight,
You
gotta
strike
when
the
moment
is
right
without
thinking.
And
after
a
while,
you
can
work
on
points
for
style.
Like
the
club
tie,
and
the
firm
handshake,
A
certain
look
in
the
eye
and
an
easy
smile.
You
have
to
be
trusted
by
the
people
that
you
lie
to,
So
that
when
they
turn
their
backs
on
you,
You'll
get
the
chance
to
put
the
knife
in.
You
gotta
keep
one
eye
looking
over
your
shoulder.
You
know
it's
going
to
get
harder,
and
harder,
and
harder
as
you
get
older.
And
in
the
end
you'll
pack
up
and
fly
down
south,
Hide
your
head
in
the
sand,
Just
another
sad
old
man,
All
alone
and
dying
of
cancer.
And
when
you
loose
control,
you'll
reap
the
harvest
you
have
sown.
And
as
the
fear
grows,
the
bad
blood
slows
and
turns
to
stone.
And
it's
too
late
to
lose
the
weight
you
used
to
need
to
throw
around.
So
have
a
good
drown,
as
you
go
down,
all
alone,
Dragged
down
by
the
stone.
I
gotta
admit
that
I'm
a
little
bit
confused.
Sometimes
it
seems
to
me
as
if
I'm
just
being
used.
Gotta
stay
awake,
gotta
try
and
shake
off
this
creeping
malaise.
If
I
don't
stand
my
own
ground,
how
can
I
find
my
way
out
of
this
maze?
Deaf,
dumb,
and
blind,
you
just
keep
on
pretending
That
everyone's
expendable
and
no-one
has
a
real
friend.
And
it
seems
to
you
the
thing
to
do
would
be
to
isolate
the
winner
And
everything's
done
under
the
sun,
And
you
believe
at
heart,
everyone's
a
killer.
Who
was
born
in
a
house
full
of
pain.
Who
was
trained
not
to
spit
in
the
fan.
Who
was
told
what
to
do
by
the
man.
Who
was
broken
by
trained
personnel.
Who
was
fitted
with
collar
and
chain.
Who
was
given
a
seat
in
the
stand.
Who
was
breaking
away
from
the
pack.
Who
was
only
a
stranger
at
home.
Who
was
ground
down
in
the
end.
Who
was
found
dead
on
the
phone.
Who
was
dragged
down
by
the
stone.
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