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The swing set is rusted, the picture frame's cracked |
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The photos have faded to gray |
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The faces you trusted just never came back |
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Yes, childhood has eroded away |
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The songs that your mother sang as she rocked you to sleep |
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You howl out of tune when you're drunk |
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Wear good shoes on these streets or you'll soon cut your feet |
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On a piece of a broken cup |
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After so many Johns and Janes have stained your sheets |
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Is it habit or thirst fills your glass? |
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After so many pipers have played on these streets |
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Who is missed more, our children or the rats? |
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Yes we've traded our toy choo-choo trains and rosary beads |
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For a bottle of gin and a fuck |
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Now we sit 'round the bar, proud of how bored we are |
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As we sip from our broken cup |
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We sing everything, everything, everything is now permitted |
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All the oaths we've taken have been graciously forgotten |
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And every sin, every sin is now forgiven |
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And every sip somehow tastes rotten |
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So let's drink to the men who forgot what they lost |
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They wear the best shoes that money can buy |
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And a toast to impotence, to cowardice and sloth |
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Nothing matters, don't bother to try |
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And three cheers for Mary, our virgin, our whore |
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If she favors you it's just bad luck |
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Now I'll lift up my glass to a life on our ass |
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Brothers, raise your cup high while your waiting to die |
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May we all find a trace, a faint echo of grace |
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Through the crack in our broken cup |
