| His first kicking came on January 1st |
| They said, «Welcome to the club |
| We’ll take your shoes and your shirt.» |
| He wore his nosebleed like a red rosette |
| And it was a prize he would win again and again and again |
| He had to find an escape route |
| It was a rumour, but it soon became true |
| When he was drunk in the suburbs |
| With a boy from a different school |
| All his good friends soon left him for dead |
| Now he stands staring down at the Clyde from a bridge |
| And then he saw an escape route |
| From the dogs of West Renfrew |
| From the bitches and bruises |
| He chose Ohio to run to |
| The name came to him just as he perched |
| On the amber lit bridge, his whole face pursed |
| It had a ring to it in American songs |
| Like a glittering release from a crippling curse |
| He dreamt of the place of a cinematic space |
| And all the pointing fingers they just melted away |
| Who knows, maybe he’ll never take flight |
| But he swears Ohio pulled him from the bridge that night |
| It became an escape route |
| From the dogs of West Renfrew |
| From the bitches and beatings |
| Midwestern chest to fall into |
| Some are saved by the good arms |
| Some are saved by the church |
| Some get saved by the skin of their teeth |
| By the thought that it couldn’t get much worse |
| Some are saved by professors |
| Some are saved by police |
| Some get saved by a distant place |
| By an impossible American dream |
| We all need an escape route |
| We all need an escape route |
| From the punches and kicks |
| The fingernails and the pricks |
| All the sharp little knives |
| In the dark pockets of life |
| From the bitches and bruises |
| From the burden of youth |
| The public hangings and stonings |
| Save us from fellow humans |
| Just give us an escape route |