| Go for the balls, just go
|
| Go for the balls, make sure he’s wounded
|
| Half of the world will know
|
| How bad it must hurt
|
| A spitting resistance
|
| Within kissing distance
|
| With a dream behind laughter
|
| Of when cushions were softer
|
| You sit by the door as ashtrays get filled
|
| With millions of axes, but no one to kill
|
| You babble non-stop about your vision of hell:
|
| That all pain produced reproduces itself
|
| And then go for the balls, just go
|
| Go for the balls, make sure he’s wounded
|
| Half the world will know
|
| Half of the world will seem astounded
|
| Go for the balls, just go
|
| Make sure that he’s hurt
|
| And still by the fire escape you’d turn
|
| Lose ambition and choose to burn
|
| As through ashes design your curse:
|
| You’re a love song in slow reverse
|
| If your heart bursts in Ferris wheels
|
| And your nerves strain in sunlit fields…
|
| We all have to learn how to heal:
|
| You — the opposite of a shield —
|
| Go for the balls, just go
|
| Go for the balls, make sure he’s wounded
|
| Half of the world will know
|
| Half of the world will seem astounded
|
| Go for the balls, just go
|
| Go for the balls 'til you hear the scream
|
| Then go for your heart, just go
|
| And return to the dream
|
| Of when cushions were softer
|
| (Back in the day)
|
| When cushions were softer
|
| (A long, long time ago) |