2nd ave, 11 a.m.

Out of your personal scripture, philomel, she comes
You sing songs to everyone about love and law and guns
But paint a dirtier picture
And I think you know the one: you're not saving anyone
You're not saving anyone
Oh, just open your door
Be a flaneur once more
You're not walking anymore
You're not talking anymore
Overturning the strictures
You leave yourself with none of your sinners to be saved
Or your comforts that you crave
It's a volatile mixture: the zealot and the rum
So you knew it couldnt be won
Still hard lost because hard run
So here's to things that console
And to at least knowing your role, and to never being done
You're a rabbit on the run
Ne, ne travaillez jamais:
No, never work, that's what they say
Mais ne, ne, ne, nous n'arretons pas:
No, dont lets stop until it's done
You're a rabbit on the run