I was born on a Sunday, with blood on my hands
In a room full of photographs, 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
'cos I do what they ask me
I never run my mouth
And by the time they turned 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 until your cigarettes were gone
Now I wrote 'cos I have to
I'm never welcome home
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 write that the good stuff don't last
These wars are never won
By a twiddling thumb
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
Now I wrote 'cos I have to
I'm never welcome home
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
cos I'm going home

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