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I was born on a Sunday, with blood on my handsin a room full of phonographs and old electric fansand I slept in a graveyard for bicycles and carsand I dreamed of distant scenery, but I never strayed too farBecause I do what they ask meI never run my mouthand by the time they turn against meI'll have them figured outAnd I learned to lieBy watching you turn to your enemiesAnd the apple you've got in your eyeHas become a stain you don't wantSo I left the city as soon as I could walkBut the buildings loomed like sentinels; it wasn't what I thoughtSo I slept in your bathtub, while you put your make-up onAnd I daydreamed about your lungs 'til your cigarettes were goneNow I roam because I have toI'm never welcome longAnd thought this road leads to disasterI've always got my songsAnd I learned to laughLetras de cancionesBy watching you burn all your photographsAnd you're right that the good things won't lastBut these wars are never won by our twiddling thumbsWell, I did what they asked me: I never ran my mouthAnd by the time they turned against me, I had them figured outAnd now I roam because I have to: I'm never welcome longAnd though this road leads to disaster, I've always got my songsAnd I learned to dieBy watching you choke on your miseryAnd if the apple is torn from my eyeI won't be alone, because I'm going home From Letras Mania