Singer:bowie, david
poor soul
spit upon that
he never knew what hit him
and it hit him so
poor dunce
he pushed back the pigmen
the barbs laughed
the fool is dead
he's less than within us
the brains talk
but the will to live is dead
and prayer can't travel
so far
these days
the talk of your life
standing so near
to innocent eyes
swings thru the tunnels
and claws his way
is small life so manic
are these really the days