Oh a working class face glares back. At me from the glass and lurches. Oh forgive me on the streets I ran. Turned sickness into popular song. Streets of wet black holes. On roads you can never know. You never have been. but they always have you. Till the day that you croak. It's no joke. Oh a working class face glares back. At me from the glass and lurches. Oh forgive me on the streets I ran. Turned sickness into unpopular song. And all these streets can do. Is to claim to know the real you. And warn if you don't leave. you will kill or be killed. Which isn't very nice. Here everybody's friendly. But nobody's friends. Oh dear God. when will I be where I should be. And when the palmist said. "One Thursday you will be dead". I said: "No not me this cannot be. Dear God take him take them take anyone. The stillborn. The newborn. The infirm. Take anyone. Take people from Pittsburgh Pennsylvania. Just spare me!"