You gotta be crazy, you gotta have a real need. You gotta sleep on your toes, and when youre 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, Youll get the chance to put the knife in. You gotta keep one eye looking over your shoulder. You know its going to get harder, and harder, and harder as you get older. And in the end youll 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, youll reap the harvest you have sown. And as the fear grows, the bad blood slows and turns to stone. And its 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 Im a little bit confused. Sometimes it seems to me as if Im just being used. Gotta stay awake, gotta try and shake off this creeping malaise. If I dont stand my own ground, how can I find my way out of this maze?
Posted on: Sun, 17 Aug 2014 20:32:54 +0000
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