Living in a room the size of a dollar bill, my friend I've done it before, but I don't think I ever will again I don't have to live in the country, I'm just trying to get back home I'd like to be a woman, but I just can't seem to quit Living alone, I haven't had a dream that I could remember for so long I didn't mean to trade you a picture of me for a song That six long months of sunshine, three straight weeks of rain A telephone line is a sometime thing, it just ain't the same I've got a hundred ways to get myself ahead I've got a thousand kinds of blues And if I lose it all it might just mean I win A chance to start my way back home or lose it all again The sun comes up but I can hardly feel a change I've spent too much time in the panarchy I can't feel the pity in the beating of the rain The city streets are wet, they smell like garbage and cocaine Moving to a truth is a wall with a gate and a welcome sign Tell me if it's yours cause I know for a fact that it can't be mine The stamp on the land is a man's own hand and he leaves it all around The man who is living here is living here yet He makes no sound © transcript Emily Beynon