| Some men collapse at the racetrack | |
| Their wrong and beat up, their eyes black | |
| Others wilt in casinos | |
| Roll dice and piss away speedboats | |
| Some dissolve into bar stools | |
| Scratched off in boxes and playoff pools | |
| I spent myself on a psychic | |
| I lost my way and a friend said she would find it | |
| Man, we were wrong | |
| Man, we were wrong | |
| I asked for the future | |
| She only sang me a song | |
| Some men they go make their own luck | |
| Grow fat from feeding on lame ducks | |
| The easy mark and the old maid | |
| The invalid and the ingrate | |
| Others wait for that high sign | |
| Some holy hoax in the tree line | |
| Me, I'm counting my canned food | |
| Bunkered down, waiting out our slingshot moods | |
| But what if | |
| I'm wrong? | |
| What if I'm wrong? | |
| I'll open my doors up | |
| People, come sweep me along | |
| Eyes are fixed and my palms are spread | |
| Dissonance floats my shipwrecked head | |
| God sleeps in the | |
| Gaza Strip | |
| And man alone's left alone to live with it | |
| The coin-flip faith of the optimist | |
| It's beginners luck in a sewing kit | |
| What's to do when there is no fix | |
| On the unflinching ambivalence? | |
| But you say that's wrong | |
| Hopeless and wrong | |
| We re-thread your needle | |
| You say, "God, play along" |
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