On All Fours

Three weeks and counting ‘til he’s on his way to France

Not a dime in his pocket but a ticket in his hand

He’s a cynical bastard but there’s hope in his eyes

It’s been a long time coming, spent a long time running from his insides

He tries hard to songwrite his way out of bed

But nothing tastes as clever as it sounded in his head

He wants to get his teeth wet and sink his feet in

He should have billions of dollars ‘cause every asshole’s put two cents in

And he writes the songs

Yeah, he can say what he wants

Yeah, he can be who he wants to

And they say he’s wrong

But they keep tagging along

Yeah, they can leave if they want to

And his way will never meet yours

He’s got the world on his back

And watch him take it on all fours

Nine out of ten motherfuckers agree

That his fucking foul language is a fucking travesty

But motherfucking fuck is just another fucking word

The idea a word is dirty is to him fucking absurd

And he writes the songs

Yeah, he can say what he wants

Yeah, he can be who he wants to

And they say he’s wrong

But they keep tagging along

Yeah, they can leave if they want to

And his way will never meet yours

He’s got the world on his back

And watch him take it on all fours

And this world will soon be the death of him

And his voice will fade away

And his jeans will be all that’s left of him

And they’ll wonder if he was okay

And the Alkies will say it was drinking

And the preacher will say it was sin

And his mother will say he was thinking only of himself again

And the gays will say it was straight people

And the straights will say it was AIDS

And he’ll be in line at the gate, people still standing in his way

In his way