Playing king of the mountain on a dead end street. At the end of the block is where we cut our teeth. The world was trying to sweep up off our feet. I'd run home crying with cut up knees.
I don't wanna talk about it. Baby wanna talk all night. You're on your feet six days a week. We're working nights just trying to make ends meet. We break our backs on the killing floor.
Riding high, then shot down. I load my guns to fire another round. I look deep into your eyes. And can't run there's nowhere left to hide. Don't stop, no it's much too late.
Dear Lord, Jesus, Buddah, Allah or can I just call you Joe. I've got a lot of things to tell you and some things I gotta know. I'm tired of hearing talk about this world's about to end.