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Down a spray paint back alley |
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I look up at the sky |
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And I see through red eyes |
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The seagulls wheel around and around |
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Worn out couches and fridges |
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And mongrel dogs roam free |
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There are rags and there are riches |
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Inside this head for me |
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We drink cheap English cider |
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And smoke hashish from North Africa |
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I've been tryin' to get the mix right |
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But I haven't got it right tonight |
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Ooh |
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Ooh |
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Ooh |
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I've a fifteen year old mustache |
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I'm so desperate for to be a man |
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People tell me to shave it off, |
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If I shave it I'm a boy again |
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Watch my father and my brother |
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Fixing old cars. |
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And their rough oil stained hands |
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Are skilled and scarred |
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Ooh |
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Ooh |
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Ooh |
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Behind this big rusty shed door |
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There's a punch bag and a clapped out car |
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As the car sits on breeze blocks |
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The punch bag takes some heavy shots |
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Down the lane way sniffin' petrol |
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I thought pebble dash was snow |
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As I stumbled in a blizzard |
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The pain inside me disappeared |
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Cross the city down the alleys |
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A thousand kids like me |
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They are watching through red eyes |
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The flock of little birds gracefully gliding by |
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Ooh |
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Ooh |
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Ooh |
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Fought in the lane, lost in the lane |
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Swallowed the shame, then I fought again |
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Fought in the lane, cried in the lane |
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Swallowed the pain, then I fought again |
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Fell in the lane, got back up in the lane |
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Died in the lane, and came alive again |
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We are all in the gutter |
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But some of us are looking at the stars |
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We are all in the gutter |
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But some of us are looking at the stars |
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We are all in the gutter |
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But some of us are looking at the stars |
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We are all in the gutter |
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But some of us are looking at the stars |
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The stars, ooh the stars, the stars |
