bloody hell.

choking on the glass
from the bottom of a bottle
or the bullet from the barrelof a .45
might as well off yourself now, lad
shoot yourself right in the eye

sitting on a bench
in a park by a fountain
or sitting in the back
of a troubled bus
there's not use speaking your mind, lad
they'll never listen to us

we were the wishes
from the bottom of their hearts
the screams of their souls
apple of their eyes
looks like the apples' gone rotten, lad
so we'll just sit back and cry