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The Rumjacks
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Spit In The Street
Oh I lie awake, I'm fit to break,
And my head won't leave me alone,
I've to make my way through one more day,
Strippin' knuckle to the glistenin' bone,
Oh it's a shit-fight! hell-right! down to the Boulevarde,
Crackles in the blisterin' heat,
Where all the women they dress like high priced hookers,
And the men all spit in the street.
Oh I set out this mornin' in steel capped shoes,
I paid a hard earned dollar for all the bad news,
All to sell my soul to these ignorant mongrels,
They can't stop me thinkin' of you.
Oh, I shove aside the human tide,
And I struggle just to keep control,
Through the lines o cabs, the angry stabs,
Of the traffic all split my skull,
Where the railway cops lay into the drunks,
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And the people never seem to see,
And all the posh kids roll to the soul-less drivel,
Of a pissy little MP3.
I've been wearin' my dreams like tattered old jeans,
All beer soaked & bloodied, the arse showin' through,
And if I come home tonight without a knife in the neck,
Whats left of me belongs to you.
Follow me & we can drown together in a smoky little room,
Help carry me by the light of the angry moon.
A pocketful o' nails, the screechin' rails,
Air thick enough to make ya choke,
Five days o' grief for two relief,
It doesn't ever seem enough, I know,
I need my white-hot fix o' my teenage kicks,
I gotta get back to me,
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