At night I walk these stinkin' streets past the crazys on my block
and I see the same old faces and I hear that same old talk
We don't worry 'bout tomorrow 'cuz we're sick of these four walls
and what you think is nothin' might be somethin' after all
Now you know this ain't no through street, the end is dead ahead
The poor folks play for keeps - down here - they're the living dead
It’s all over but the shouting…