Tekst:
Morrissey Swords

Children in pieces in Irish industrial schools Nuns called mothers And their Christian brothers Kick the shit out of very frightened children Judges

Friday mourning I am dressed in black Douse the house lights I'm not coming back For years, I warned you Through tears, I told you Friday mourning, there

So what do you think I am? And how precisely could you tell A decent skin is all I am? People think badly of me But one day maybe they'll praise Oh, but

Ganglord, the police are Kicking their way into my house And haunting me, taunting me Wanting me to break their laws Ganglord, the police are Kicking

Because of my poor education I don't expect your invitation A ship lost inches away from the bay Because of my poor education I can't endure my situation

Long ago when he was Young and restless Suddenly, daddy saw The beckoning finger of fate Don't make fun of daddy's voice Because he can't help it When

Reflecting from my death bed I'm balancing life's riches Against the ditches And the flat grays in between All I can see are the never laid That's the

You chase in the rat race And you always feel so hollow You marry because it's expected of you And it only makes you feel more lonely But still you look

I'm not running away I'm running to Corruption of the spirit isn't in it For a good looking man about town Are you afraid of someone alive? Are you feeling