On all fours

three weeks and counting 'til he's on his way to france
not a dime in his pocket, but a ticket in his hand
he's a cynical bastard, but there's hope in his eyes
it's been a long time comin', spent a long time runnin' from his insides

he tries hard to songwrite his way out of bed
but nothing tastes as clever as it sounded in his head
he wants to get his teeth wet and sink his feet in
he should have billions of dollars, cuz every asshole's put two cents in

chorus
but he writes the songs and he can say what he wants, yeah, he can be who he wants to
and they say he's wrong, but they keep tagging along, yeah, they can leave if they want to
and his way will never meet yours
he's got the world on his back and watch him take it on all fours

9 out of 10 motherfuckers agree
that his fucking foul language is a fucking travesty
but motherfucking fuck is just another fucking word
the idea a word is dirty is to him fucking absurd

chorus

bridge
and this world will soon be the death of him
and his voice will fade away
and his jeans will be all that's left of him
and they'll wonder if he was okay
and the alkies'll say it was drinkin'
and the preacher'll say it was sin
and his mother'll say he was thinkin'
only of himself again
and the gays they will say it was straight people
and the straights will said it was AIDS
and he'll be in line at the gate
people still standing in his way, in his way

chorus