From The Recordings Html
Kids with busted bubble dreams are packed in like sardines; ass to elbow, front to rear. Smells like pain and cheap cigars, blown in from the bars, I can taste the grief from here. Though I’ve worn these gloves too long,
fightin’ rights my ship of wrong. So hit the lights and cue my song, they tell me it’s American. Some men fight because they must, they’re fighting for the crust of a bread I’ve long dismissed. Me? I fight for piles of gold,
won’t stop until I hold every fortune in my fist. But this “pursuit of happiness” punched a hole right through my chest. It’s a good thing I’m a huge success! They tell me it’s American! Maybe I’ll wake up one day, hang ‘em up and walk away. Find a lake for fishing in, way up north of Michigan, where the folks don’t know my name, but they curse it just the same. Everybody understands, ain’t no meeting my demands. Pry it "from my cold dead hands”. They tell me it’s American.