You gotta be crazy, you gotta have a real need.
You gotta sleep on your toes, and when you're on the street,
You gotta be able to pick out the easy meat
With your eyes closed.
And then moving in silently, down wind and out of sight,
You gotta strike when the moment is right without thinking.
And after a while, you can work on points for style.
Like the club tie, and the firm handshake,
A certain look in the eye and an easy smile.
You have to be trusted by the people that you lie to,
So that when they turn their backs on you,
You'll get the chance to put the knife in.
You gotta keep one eye looking over your shoulder.
You know it's going to harder, and harder and harder as
you get older.
And in the end you'll pack up and fly down south,
Hide your head in the sand,
Just another sad old man, All alone and dying of cancer.
And when you lose control,
You'll reap the harvest you have sown.
And as the fear grows,
The bad blood slows and turns to stone.