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The swiftest fingers play for money |
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the best are tangled up in minds |
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The sweetest sisters come down to connin |
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they buy no truth of any kind |
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Senile mothers woo their spittin' sons |
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hunky husbands sell their pounds of flesh |
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the most sung song is sixteens tons |
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only trash is good for cash |
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Send me y'r greetings, sweet sweet love |
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commend me if I need to be heaven above |
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Y'r socalled friends just drain y'r brain |
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to be a star in conversation |
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the clap trap rows on Lover's Lane are |
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only meant to keep you on probation |
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Shoot y'r shit & shoot y'r stinkin' lip |
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you find no way to score a solid hit |
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try everything now to prove y'r hip |
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you're gonna end up the final stupid flip |
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Send me your greetings, sweet sweet love |
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commend me if I need to be heaven above |
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but leave me, please leave me |
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with the scum & the junkies |
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on skid row, where all names are delusive |
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skid row, where all pain is exclusive |
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Skid Row |
