Down in the gutter of my life story
I’m lying in a bed with a dream playing in my head
Spitting blood into a test tube
I used to be half a man I used to be useful
I walk with the demons and the devils
Shadowboxing the ghosts of my reflection in windows
All the pigeons and the statues
Are staring down at me
At the drunk and the disorderly
Paper bag bottles in the wardrobe
Stealing from the shops where I once bought my hope
All wrapped up in a plastic bag
Lying still while the human race step over the rags
I’ll name the names in my diatribe
Posthumously posted on my website
Milkmen and taxi drivers
Are last men on the street
And the drunk and the disorderly
Who am I, who are you?
Who is the god that we bow down to?
Who are we, who are they?
Who is the master, who is the slave?
I stepped out of the present tense
I cut the umbilical chord of reality
I don’t know where this really is
Or where all this illusion really begins
I keep an old business card inside my shoes
An anonymous connection to the life I once used
Curtains moving in the council houses
On the grey estates
Of the drunk and the disorderly
Who am I, who are you?
Who is the god that we bow down to?
Who are we, who are they?
Who is the master, who is the slave?
I am powerless
There is a greater power
As I understand it
Within myself
I’m ready for changing
I’m ready to be changed
Hear my voice
Call and be called
I know where the bodies have been buried
I know things only the dead should know
All above me, all around me
Within and without
Are the drunk and the disorderly
The drunk and the disorderly