And I accept I'm going to die, and die alone, unknown I'll die. A life of no repute I'll lead, and burn in anonymity.
When I was young I thought there was a meaning inside everything. A point, a plan, a purpose for, this thing we call a human being. But now I know that that's untrue, there's nobody painting the sky blue. So hang up the phone there's no one home, if ya wanna be heard it's up to you.
Hang me up alone to die, my boots are worn, and my soul doth cry. But let me lay my burden down, and stick up a middle finger to the underground. This Brooklyn DIY Scene's a cutthroat affair, they'll shun ya if they want to, and hate ya if ya care. So ready your guns, and your battle cry, and expect them to cheer, and to drink when you die...
And so punk is dead, and you're fucking next, and they'll eat you alive without a regret, and all of your dreams are going to hell, there's no fucking future, we're all going to hell! And so punk is dead, and you're fucking next, and they'll eat you alive without a regret, and all of your dreams are going to hell, there's no fucking future, we're all going to hell!
Baby, I'm walking, I'm walking alone, I'm tired of Bushwick, I'm going back home! To that two room apt. on the Upper West Side, the place I was born, and surely will die! My parents are sleepless, cramped in their bunk beds, dreamless at night there are no hopes in their heads. So don't give me this shit, like "It's tough in the streets," despite that I'm white, I've grown close to defeat. And the whiskey hits heavy so I keep my hands up, pour me another, and I'll finish my cup. And tell ya some stories ya don't want to hear, 'bout the shit that I've been through, with a wink, and a tear. And how Brooklyn's a bitch that won't let ya go, and the City's a slut tarted up for the show. So raise up your glass, and raise it up high, thank Heaven on Earth, we're all going to die!