I don’t care to write a song about it
I suppose I think it’s all my fault
There’s nothing but a wage slave’s dinner on my plate
I work so hard for my little bit of salt
I suppose that I should feel blessed
I suppose that I should count my lucky stars
I don’t care to argue with you about it
Unless you have the time to count my wage slave scars
I guess I should be proud of what I’ve done
I guess at everything these days it’s true
I used to know some stuff I guess
I used to think I knew the way through
My shoes are still smoking from hell’s floor
I’ve still got ice in my hair
My head’s still reeling reeling
from hovering through the fog and filthy air
I’d like to make a big declaration
I’d like to stand up on my desk
With my mouth full of peyote buttons
grinning numb on mary jane and mesc
I’d like to rattle these saps cages
Show them all the shit my skull holds down
I’d like to dance right out the door
Just for a change be my own clown
But I sit and write a song about it instead
Can three thousand wrongs make a right
When I write my millionth song
Will God open up the box and let in the light
You can read an explanation of the origin of these lyrics here
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