I was born on a Sunday with blood on my hands
In a room full of phonographs and old electric fans
And I slept in a graveyard for bicycles and cars
And I dreamed of distant scenery but never strayed too far
'Cause I do what they ask me
I never run my mouth
And by the time you turn against me
I'll have you figured out
And I learned to lie by watching you turn to your enemies
And the apple you've got in your eye
Has become a stain you don't want
So I left for the city as soon as I could walk
But the buildings loomed like sentinels
It wasn't what I thought
So I slept in your bathtub while you put your makeup on
And I daydreamed about your lungs 'til your cigarettes were gone
Now I roam 'cause I have to
I'm never welcome long
And though this road leads to disaster
I've always got my songs
And I learned to laugh
By watching you burn all your photographs
And you're right that the good stuff won't last
But these wars are never won by our twiddling thumbs
Well I did what they asked me
I never ran my mouth
And by the time they turned against me
I had them figured out
And now I roam 'cause I have to
I'm never welcome long
And though this road leads to disaster
I've always got my songs
And I learned to die by watching you choke on your misery
And if the apple is torn from my eye
Well, I won't be alone because I'm going home
