Hey it's Friday night in the drunk tank And you're down on your luck You got forty-eight hours To tell it to the judge And all your best intentions They turn from gold to dust You've always had this time bomb Ticking in your guts You can only blame so much On circumstance The real sick puppies They don't get much of a chance At the feel good mill Down at the feel good mill And there's so much time to k** I been trying to keep out the chill I am guilty of transgression I have lied and not loved I have falsified traumatized victimized As if that weren't enough And I have heard the Good Shepherd
Always seeks His lost sheep Why is it that all my life i'm keeping it at arms length You can only blame so much On the lack of insurance The real sick puppies They just learn to endure it You got lepers in your bedroom And there are beggars in your pantry Post traumatic-stress veterans Who saw platoon one time too many So they buy into the voodoo And the hoodoo and the bingo That drab vocabulary And that therapeutic lingo You could lay it all down Between the legs of affluence But the real sick puppies They're just glad to abuse it